


Copy

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Chick lit, F/M, M/M, Modern AU, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 102,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2526194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musketeers modern AU. When Porthos accepts the job as a reporter for the local newspaper in a small country town, he’s worried that life will be dull. It turns out that, beneath the surface, Howerton and its residents are not quite as boring as he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mild warnings for mention of physical abuse of minor children, class A drug use and alcoholism.

Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Porthos hummed along with the godawful, jangly pop song that was on the radio, hoping it would settle his nerves. He was insanely excited, but at the same time terrified, because this was his dream job and the new start he’d been needing for a long time. After a decade spent throwing his life away, he’d finally got his shit together, graduated from university and now had his first paid position as a reporter on a local newspaper.

The sat nav told him it was five miles to Howerton and he looked out at the scenery, amazed at what a beautiful area it was. It seemed crazy, but he’d never even visited here before. The job interview had been conducted in a pub in Shepherd’s Bush; he’d said yes to the offer immediately and, within a week, was on his way, car loaded with boxes of Blu Rays, games and bags full of clothes. He hadn’t even got a clue where he’d be staying.

Expecting to see some form of suburbia emerging from the trees, he was surprised when he turned onto an old arched bridge and the countryside was instantly replaced by a wide street, dotted with pretty sandstone buildings, large and small, all of them covered in a riot of hanging baskets. Relieved to find that the pub, the Fighting Cocks, declared itself to have rooms available, he then spotted the Howerton News office, with a parking space outside, and turned into the vacant bay. There was a crunching sound and he was thrown forward, his Golf crashing into the side of a beaten up old car that was intent on reversing into the same space.

“Fuck!” Porthos slammed his hands onto the steering wheel, turning off the engine and then leaping out to survey the extent of the damage. “You total prick,” he said to his counterpart in the accident, who was rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the crumpled bodywork of his ancient Jag.

“Are you suggesting this was my fault?” the bloke said, looking at Porthos, an eyebrow raised quizzically. “If so I’d advise you to get some driving lessons, or at very least a pair of glasses.”

Porthos glared, but the man seemed unimpressed by it. Staring disinterestedly back at Porthos, he sighed and then, without another word, climbed into his Jaguar and drove off like a bat out of hell.

“Fucking wanker,” growled Porthos as he parked in the bay.

“I see you’ve met our local squire.” A dark haired man leaned into Porthos’ open window and smiled at him, breathing out a cloud of smoke.

Waving away the fumes, Porthos emerged from the car. “Squire?” he said in astonishment as he pressed the button on the fob. What kind of medieval world was this?

“Well, he’s actually some sort of ten-a-penny French count, but he lives at the Manor, so technically that makes him our squire.” The dark haired man grinned. “I love these old country traditions. They’re fun.”

“Not so sure myself,” grunted Porthos, who was beginning to wish he’d stayed in London.

“Don’t be a misery. I’m Aramis: photographer extraordinaire. You must be Porthos, our new tea boy. Welcome to Howerton.”

Porthos might have been feeling out of sorts, but Aramis had such a nice face that he couldn’t help smiling and, within seconds, they were unexpectedly linked arm in arm and he was being led into the tiny headquarters of the News.

“Boss,” said Aramis. “I found our newest member of staff having a fight with Monsieur le Comte.”

“Porthos,” said Treville and, ignoring the news of the fracas, he stood up to shake his hand in welcome. “Glad you could make it down here so quickly. Have you got anywhere sorted to live?”

“Not yet,” said Porthos. “I thought I’d stay at the pub for now.”

“Nonsense,” said Aramis. “There’s a spare room at my house, so you’re welcome to move in and share the rent.”

“If you can stand all the noise,” muttered Treville with a wry look in Aramis’ direction.

“Noise?” asked Porthos nervously.

“Aramis likes to entertain,” said Treville. “A lot. If we ran a gossip column it would be all about his tomcatting.”

“Exaggeration and slander,” laughed Aramis. “Shall I take Porthos to see the sights?”

Treville scratched his head and looked at his calendar. “Makes sense. I’ve nothing for either of you until the interview with that cricketer lad tomorrow afternoon.”

“Charles d’Artagnan,” said Aramis to Porthos, by means of explanation. “He just got picked to play for the county, such is the level of exciting news around here.”

“Don’t knock it,” said Treville. “You get a decent wage and plenty of time off to pursue your art -- if that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

Aramis sniggered. “I can’t tell if you’re having a go at my painting or my love life, so I’ll be doubly offended just to be sure.”

Treville grinned. “Take your pick. Now bugger off before I find you some actual work to do.”

Bewildered but slightly more reassured, Porthos followed Aramis out of the tiny building and into the full glare of the sun.

The town was picturesque and lined, as one would expect, with tea rooms and antique shops. Somewhere nearby, it undoubtedly had a Norman church, perched on a hill and surrounded by a rapidly expanding graveyard.

“Howerton’s as dull as they come,” said Aramis, in an undertone, “but at least we’re not far from London if we need to brush up on life. Now, do you want to leave your car here and have a wander before we go home?”

His car! Porthos had forgotten all about the damn accident. “I didn’t get any insurance details off that wanker,” he said in annoyance.

“Nor will you,” said Aramis with a shrug. “I doubt he’s even got a licence. He was probably pissed when he crashed into you.”

“Shit.” Porthos was furious. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You could either report him to Sergeant Rochefort, or pay for the damage yourself.” Aramis clapped him on the back. “I reckon we should have a pint or two at the Cocks while you mull it over.”

Porthos couldn’t for the life of him think of anything better. “I’ll go along with that,” he said with a grin.

The Fighting Cocks was an old fashioned pub: the kind one always hoped for when the sign said traditional, but actually meant sand blasted pine and putty coloured paint. This place was ancient oak with a hundred layers of stain, and rugs that had barely seen a thread in years.

“Two pints of Gobblers please, Remi,” said Aramis.

“There you go,” said the barman, pulling first one, and then a second glass of beautiful strawberry blond liquid. “And no smoking up the chimney where you think I can’t see you.”

Porthos' spirits lifted at the first sip of his beer. Any place that served this kind of nectar could only be Heaven. 

“To new acquaintances,” said Aramis, raising his glass.

Porthos grinned. He could tell immediately that they were going to be friends, and, indeed, after five more pints and some incredibly good fish and chips they were officially confirmed as best mates.

“It’s nice being in the country,” said Porthos as he sat on the wall outside, listening to the river gush past and watching Aramis’ smoke drift lazily into the night sky.

“I enjoy it,” said Aramis with an air of utter contentment.

“Budge up, you two,” came a friendly northern voice from behind them. “Can you lend us a fag?”

By now, Porthos was drunk enough to lean around and give the girl a proper once over. She was dark haired and good looking, obviously one of Aramis’ conquests. He wondered if he’d have to make himself scarce tonight: a worrying thought when he didn’t even know where he lived.

“This is Porthos,” said Aramis with a wave of his hand.

“You must be our new reporter,” said the girl. “I’m Constance. I run Voguette.”

“Pleasure,” said Porthos, without a single clue as to what a Voguette actually was.

“Constance is our style guru,” said Aramis, passing her a cigarette and then lighting it with his Zippo. “I thought you’d given up?”

“That was yesterday,” said Constance. “Did you hear d’Artagnan’s back in town?” She gazed dreamily up at the stars. 

“We know. We’re interviewing him tomorrow. I’ll get him to pose naked for a few personal shots for you, and Porthos here’ll question him on his favourite positions in the sack.”

“Don’t you bloody dare, Aramis.” 

Apparently, she wasn't one of his girlfriends and, even in the dark, Porthos could see her lighting up like a beacon. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he behaves," he said gruffly.

“Thank you.” Constance beamed at him. “I knew you’d be lovely.”

“Likewise.” Porthos was the one blushing now. “Seems as if everyone here’s lovely, with the exception of Monsieur le Cunt.”

“Huh?” said Constance.

“Our new friend had a car related run in with the Comte de la Fère this afternoon,” laughed Aramis. “He’s none too fond of him.”

“I’m sure he’d be lovely too, if only he’d let us get to know him,” said Constance, the alcohol obviously dulling her senses. “He’s got a nice name: Olivier. He doesn’t look like an Olivier.”

“He looks like a dick,” growled Porthos.

“You’re getting grumpy again,” said Aramis, glancing sideways at him. “Time to show you to your new living accommodation, I think.”

Porthos had to admit he was feeling a bit past it and, after stopping off in the loo for a lengthy six pint piss, he was wandering unsteadily down the road, with Aramis beside him, when they came to a halt outside his Golf.

“I can’t drive,” he said in horror. “I can barely walk.”

Aramis laughed uproariously. “You clearly haven’t grasped quite how small this particular small town is. Open the boot and we’ll grab whatever you need for tonight. We can come back for the rest tomorrow.”

As far as Porthos’ beer addled mind could work out, his holdall and a rucksack would do for now, 'though he hoped it wasn’t too far because he did have a PlayStation and a laptop in there, along with his clothes and wash stuff.

No more than a hundred yards down the road, they stopped outside a honey coloured cottage with a gate that had rusted through and fallen off its hinges. A forest of lavender was taking over the tiny front garden, making it difficult to find the path, let alone walk up it.

“I’m fully aware this doesn’t look very me, so no need for any sarcastic comments.” Laughing, Aramis unlocked the door and lifted the latch. “I inherited the tenancy from my predecessor. Basically, anyone who works at the News can live here on a peppercorn rent. We’re not entirely sure why, but no one’s ever going to question it.”

Once inside, Porthos looked around him at the doll’s house he was about to call home. There was an ingrained smell of woodsmoke and beeswax which made him feel as if he'd stepped back in time a few hundred years and the cottage itself was straight out of a storybook with its uneven floorboards, mismatched furniture and inglenook fireplace that was half the size of the lounge. He turned around and- “Ow!”

“You'll get used to the beams,” said Aramis. “Eventually.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Porthos, shoving his bags into the recess under the stairs and sinking into a miniature sofa.

“It helps to be a shortarse,” said Aramis. "Which unfortunately neither of us are. Coffee?"

“Love one,” yawned Porthos. “White, two sugars please, mate.”

Despite the microscopic living arrangements, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of sharing with Aramis. There was something comfortable about the man. He was content in his company and smiled gratefully as Aramis put mugs and biscuits down on the table then sat in the armchair opposite, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“Thanks,” said Porthos, picking up his drink. They’d discussed movies and music while they were in the pub, with a brief yet risky foray into politics, but had never got down to the nitty gritty. “Tell me about Howerton. What have I let myself in for coming here?”

Aramis’ eyes widened in amusement. “That depends. How invested are you in overly large cucumbers and sticky buns?”

Porthos cocked his head thoughtfully to one side and grinned. “That’d be telling, mate.”

“The Winter Finding at the end of September is the biggest event around here and the busiest the paper gets all year. Generally, we report on Young Farmers dances and lost cats.”

"Winter Finding?" Porthos asked.

"Just a harvest festival really," explained Aramis. "Mostly cake stalls and vegetable shows with a bit of voodoo thrown in. Don't get your hopes up."

Porthos had to admit it wasn’t quite the high risk, high pressure career he’d been hoping for when he was at uni. “It can’t be all about ladies from the WI and allotment wars.”

“Allotment wars would be the height of excitement,” sniggered Aramis. “We can only dream of such things.”

“But what about the people? There must be somebody interesting living here.”

"Not really," said Aramis thoughtfully. "Your arch nemesis is probably the most fascinating, if only because he's been here two years and no one knows a thing about him, except that he frequently empties the shop of wine and he's usually pissed when he goes in there."

Shiny new investigative credentials itching to get a look in, Porthos fleetingly wondered what had happened to turn a relatively young, rich bloke into an alcoholic recluse, but then he remembered that the guy was a dickhead and promptly dismissed all thoughts of him.

Aramis turned on the telly. "How good are you at the rules of cricket?"

"Pretty much crap," admitted Porthos. "Football's my game."

"Mine too." Aramis smiled so widely his cavalier moustache turned up in approval. "I knew we were destined to be best friends the moment I set eyes on you. I bet you support Spurs like I do."

"Gunners," said Porthos and they both fell about laughing, the after effects of the beer making this seem far funnier than it actually was. Football was a serious business.

"Not _quite_ soul mates then," declared Aramis as he turned over to the highlights of the current test match on Channel Five.

"So, this is the fast paced summary version of cricket?" said Porthos, fifteen minutes later. "Can't say I'm looking forward to reporting on the matches." Yawning loudly, he picked up the mugs to carry them out to the tiniest kitchen he'd ever seen. "Don't expect me to do much cooking," he added, looking around him in awe, amazed that all the necessary appliances could actually fit into such a small area. "Only half of me can get in here at any one time."

There was a chuckle from the living room. "You think that’s bad, then I can't wait til you see the shower."

Picking up his holdall, Porthos crawled up the stairs to avoid the beams, with Aramis following on behind, carrying the rucksack.

Opening the airing cupboard, Aramis grabbed some clean bed linen and towels then opened the door to the back bedroom. "It's not the biggest space ever," he said with a wry smile. "But it does look out onto the river."

He and Porthos made up the three quarter size bed, and Aramis then left him to it. "The bathroom's across the hall," he said. "Hope you sleep okay. In the morning we'll go on a tour of the big houses and I'll show you where the rich folks live. We might even get to tug our forelocks at the squire."

Fat chance of that happening, thought Porthos. "Thanks, mate," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and unlacing his shoes. "See you tomorrow."

He rummaged around in his holdall, eventually locating his wash bag, and then hurried off to use the bathroom. Wedging himself into the tiny space and dodging yet more bloody beams, he peed, washed and then cleaned his teeth, all the while staring in horror at the diminutive size of the shower cubicle. There was no bath; they had no chance of fitting one of those in here. This whole place was ridiculous, but if he wasn't happy with either house or job then he'd signed no long term contracts and was still as free as a bird, just the way he liked it.

Dog tired by now, he was sure he'd be able to sleep on a bed of nails. After stripping down to his boxers, he climbed into bed and, realising how stuffy it was, he sat up and lifted the curlicue latch to open the window and let in some fresh air. The gurgling of the river tripled in volume and he tucked his hands disconsolately behind his head, certain he'd be more likely to kip on that aforementioned bed of nails, than here in this chintz decorated, cupboard from hell.


	2. Chapter 2

Next thing Porthos knew, the sun was blazing full beam into his window and, picking up his phone from the bedside table, he stared blearily at the screen in confusion. That couldn't be right; he could have sworn it said nine thirty. 

"Shit!" he muttered. His last chance for making a good impression had just been flushed down the toilet. So far he'd crashed his car, yelled at the local bigwig, got pissed in the pub and then overslept. "Well done, Porthos," he said in a low voice as he raced to the bathroom and squeezed into the shower cubicle. If he pressed himself against the tile wall and hunched over to the left, he could _almost_ slide the door fully shut.

Whichever way he adjusted the controls, the water ran infuriatingly hot and then cold in a steady sequence. Still, it did the job of waking him up, and in fifteen minutes he was clean, dressed and downstairs, only to discover that there was no sign of his new flatmate. Either Aramis was gone, which seemed unlikely, or he was still fast asleep. This was so far from life in London, he could have relocated to Mars. 

Switching the kettle on, he made himself a bowl of cereal and ate his breakfast at the dinette, peering through leaded lights into the back garden. It was a jungle out there, plants knitted together into a blanket of flora. At the far end, an overgrown tangle of bean stems, sweet peas and honeysuckle crawled across what looked like an old summerhouse with an out of place, shiny glass frontage.

Mug of coffee in hand, Porthos wandered down through the knee high meadow grass to take a closer look at the building. Testing the handle, he was surprised to find it unlocked and, peering inside, he discovered a light, bright studio, every inch of which was covered in canvases. Of course! Treville had mentioned Aramis' painting yesterday.

Porthos ventured inside and looked around at the walls, impressed by the quality of the work. Most of the stuff was a luminescent world of bright mediterranean colours. A few, however, were darker in tone.

"So, you've discovered my wicked secret," said a voice from behind him, and Porthos jumped, glad that he'd almost finished his coffee.

"Sorry, mate" he said. "Journalist equals nosey git, you know that. You're bloody talented.”

"Thanks," laughed Aramis. "Don't worry about having a nose around; I enjoy showing off my work. Photography's the money spinner, but painting’s the thing I love best."

"And living here lets you do both," said Porthos, wondering whether he'd fallen headlong into paradise, then becoming convinced of such when they stepped outside to look at the tumbling shallows of the river: a secret that was locked away from the world, hidden behind the summerhouse.

Aramis crouched down on the decking, avoiding the spidery legs of the nettle fronds at all costs, and swirled his fingers through the water. "It's not deep enough to swim, but it's lovely to dangle your feet in on a hot day." He then jumped up. "No time for that today, though. We're going to make an early start, so I can give you the grand tour."

"Early?" snorted Porthos and Aramis looked at his battered watch. 

"It's not quite half ten," he said in surprise. "Which means we've got plenty of time to unload the rest of your stuff first."

This was definitely Mars, decided Porthos as they carried his few possessions into the cottage, and then climbed into Aramis' knackered old Citroën CX.

"Treville should have warned you in advance that there's no point in having a decent car when you live in the countryside," said Aramis, picking up on his unimpressed look. "Everyone here drives like the clappers. Your spanking new Golf will have a ton more dents in it soon enough."

Porthos cursed inwardly. Wanting to impress his colleagues, he'd bought the damn car on finance. It served him right for trying to show off.

"There's Constance's shop," said Aramis, pointing out a boutique full of vintage clothing with his lit fag. "And next to it is the town police station."

Porthos had never seen anything so ridiculous. "Does it have room for a cell?"

"Just one, but Rochefort can always lock an extra person up in his office if they've been very naughty," smirked Aramis. "Antique shop, tea room, antique shop, tea room etc, and then we have the town hall, the supermarket and the garage where Serge'll be able to beat out the bumps on your bodywork. And that, my friend, is Howerton."

"You forgot the church," laughed Porthos as they drove past the quaint little building.

"Dear old Father Duvall. How could I ignore him?" gasped Aramis in theatrical horror. "I don't think even _he_ bothers to attend Sunday services nowadays."

Leaving the linear reaches of the town, they were immediately buried in the deepest countryside and, turning off the winding A road, Aramis made his way, at breakneck speed, along what was little more than a track that threaded its way through fields and orchards. 

Just when Porthos was beginning to feel travel sick for the first time since he was a child, Aramis slewed off the road, pulling up in front of a pair of monstrous gateposts which were mounted with ornately crafted stone lions. Between the posts were two of the most outlandish wrought iron gates ever seen, complete with filigree work and a gilt painted Latin motto worked into the design.

"Which Chelsea footballer lives here then?" said Porthos, getting out of the car to peer up the drive.

"If only," said Aramis, lighting another cigarette and standing next to Porthos. "At least then we'd have a bit of scandal to report on occasionally." He breathed in a huff of smoke. "No, this place is owned by Louis Bourbon, property developer and notorious destroyer of the countryside."

Porthos looked up at the neo-classical palace, set within grounds that must be trimmed daily by a fleet of gardeners, all of them armed with nail scissors. It was at odds with its surroundings: a glistening white blot on the landscape.

"This is by far the most expensive house in the area, so when Louis acquired it, he naturally assumed he'd be local royalty, hosting Christmas balls and playing the generous benefactor, handing out largesse to the poor. That kind of thing." Aramis laughed. "Imagine his disgust when he discovered that he'd bought the wrong property."

"Wrong?" questioned Porthos.

"Come on, I'll show you." Stubbing out his fag, Aramis jumped back in the car, starting the engine before Porthos had even slammed his door shut. They drove a couple of miles further down the lane, coming to a halt outside the complete antithesis of the Bourbon residence: a Jacobean pile which was in a very poor state of repair. "The Manor here was abandoned for years due to some legal wranglings," explained Aramis. "But by the time Louis realised it was _the_ place to live, someone had beaten him to it, snapping it up as soon as it became available. Your friend, of course."

"Le Cunt."

"Monsieur le Cunt to you." Aramis looked up at the building. "And what I wouldn't give to find out his story."

"Huh?" Porthos couldn't understand. The man was a stone faced git without a shred of honour. "Why waste your time on him?"

"Because he's a blank page," said Aramis. "I've searched and searched and there’s nothing on him. He was born in Paris. His parents are dead. He went to the best schools. Then zero. It’s as if he vanished off the face of the earth for ten years, until he turned up here a drunken wreck."

"So, he's boring." Porthos shrugged.

"No. He's a vacuum," said Aramis. "And no one's history is that empty of detail."

Porthos didn't want to be intrigued; he just wanted the cash for his car repairs. "If you like, I'll ask him for his life story while I'm shaking the money out of his bloody pockets."

"As if." Aramis sniggered. "You're far too much of a teddy bear."

"You wait," growled Porthos with a sideways look of amusement at Aramis. "Soon as I find out how much he owes me, I'll be all over him like a bloody rash."

"Yeah, of course you will,” said Aramis, returning his smile. “I'll not hold my breath. Move along now." He pointed at the passenger door with a flourish of his hand. "There’s only one more place left to show you on the grand tour." Starting the car, he drove down the lane and they’d gone no more than a mile in distance when a horse and rider emerged from the trees at a fast gallop. 

“Fuck!” Aramis swerved, missing them by an inch rather than a foot.

The horse reared and threw its rider, who leapt to his feet, caught hold of the reins and remounted, throwing the pair of them an evil look. It was then that Porthos recognised him as the delightful Comte de la Fère.

Aramis wound down the window. "Are you okay, my friend? You landed with a fair old crack just then."

Without even bothering to aim another withering glance in their direction, let alone gift Aramis with a reply, the Comte turned his horse down a bridle path and veered off across the fields.

"That was weird." Aramis watched him disappear into the woods.

"What? That he rides as dangerously as he drives?" said Porthos. It didn't seem at all odd to him.

“No,” said Aramis thoughtfully. “He was coming from Richelieu's land.”

Why had everyone been living here since the Norman conquest? With his own surname being du Vallon, Porthos was starting to feel as if this job was his birthright, rather than an entry level opportunity into the world of news. "Who's Richelieu?" he asked.

"Our local MP and senior Home Office minister," said Aramis as a black Mercedes approached them from behind, nearly smashing into the Citroën before racing off around the bend. "Speak of the Devil.”

“I didn’t know I’d be dicing with death so often,” said Porthos, his hands still braced on the dash, certain there’d be an impact.

Aramis followed the sedan down the road and Porthos watched as it turned left through a set of electric security gates. Pulling over onto the verge, he saw an iron grey wraith emerging from the back of the Mercedes. The man glanced disparagingly down his nose at them before disappearing inside the house. 

The driver, a barrel chested thug of a man, approached, shouting at them through closed gates and open car window. “Mr Richelieu says he’ll be doing a surgery in the town hall on the fifth of July, so you can see him then.” He stared at them with an ugly sneer on his face. “So, in other words, piss off.”

“We were just going, but thanks for your time, Martin,” yelled Aramis, emptying his ashtray out of the window.

“He’s an unpleasant fucker,” said Porthos as Aramis turned the car around and headed back to town.

“Labarge graduated top of the class from the Unpleasant Fuckers Academy,” snorted Aramis. “Richelieu once tried to convince me he was his under secretary rather than his personal henchman. I laughed in his face. Probably why neither of them like me much now.”

“Howerton seems more like a nest of vipers than a sleepy, country town,” mused Porthos. “You said it was boring.”

“It is, believe me.” Aramis slung his car into the first available space he came to in the High Street. “But maybe you’ll be just the catalyst we need,” he said, getting out and slamming the door. “Come on, partner. Time to do some work.”

Grabbing his rucksack, Porthos followed him into the Fighting Cocks. “In case you hadn’t noticed, mate, this is the pub.”

“Where else would we do our interviews?” laughed Aramis. “Anyway, we deserve a lunch break after the busy morning we’ve had. Two pints of the usual please, Adele.”

“Right you are, my lovely.” The barmaid was red haired and pretty. She was also employing every flirtation in her repertoire to order to impress Aramis. “I’m off tonight, by the way.”

“Well then, I shall take you out somewhere wonderful,” said Aramis, paying for the drinks. “The Indian do you?”

“My favourite,” said the girl, looking entirely satisfied with life.

Carrying their beers over to a long table next to the garden entrance, Porthos and Aramis were busy studying the menu when a very irate young man came marching up to them. 

“You’re the guys from the newspaper, right?”

“Indeed,” said Aramis with a welcoming smile. “And you’re d’Artagnan. We’re here to interview you about county cricket.”

“Sod that,” said d’Artagnan. “I’ve got something far more important to talk about.”

The kid was spilling over with righteous indignation and Porthos was instantly intrigued. He’d never yet met a sportsman turn down the opportunity of talking about himself. “What’s up, Charles?”

A frown appeared briefly on the young man’s face. “Call me d’Artagnan,” he said. “The council have only gone and sold the recreation ground to a developer. Now we have nowhere to host the junior tournament, or the senior league. It’s a fucking travesty.”

“Sit down,” said Porthos as Aramis went off to the bar to buy him a drink. “Let me get this right. You’re still involved at local level?”

“Of course,” said d’Artagnan, a look of bemusement on his face. “I’m not going to abandon everyone just because I’ve turned professional. What kind of git would do that?”

Most of them, thought Porthos, his respect for the young man growing. “You say they’ve sold the sports ground already?”

“Yep.” D’Artagnan looked miserable. “The tournament committee received a letter this morning, and the pavilions and hall have all been locked up.”

“But that’s bloody outrageous,” said a north country accent from the next table along.

“What an amazing coincidence that you happen to be having your lunch break right now, Constance,” smirked Aramis as he returned to the table with a tray full of beers and packets of crisps.

She threw him a stern look and, moving across to join them, sat herself down next to d’Artagnan. “They can’t just sell the ground. It’s a designated public space set aside for local events.”

“Well, someone should tell the council that,” said d'Artagnan. “Because the signs are up and, according to them, Bourbon Developments are going to be building a luxury retirement village for the over sixties.”

“But what about the Winter Finding and the Summer Fête and the May Day celebrations,” said Constance, in shock. “They’re all held in the rec. The dances are always in the hall. What's supposed to happen about them? We've been planning a forties night for ages." 

Her face fell a mile and Aramis patted her sympathetically on the arm. "It's okay," he said. "We'll get to the bottom of this. There must be a mistake. I know someone who works for the council; I’ll give her a call." 

He disappeared off to the garden, cigarette packet in one hand and phone in the other, and Porthos understood now what working for a local newspaper was all about. It may not be major league politics, but it was still important to the community.

"The kids will be so disappointed," said d'Artagnan, elbows on the table, chin resting on laced hands. "We made sure they were a hundred percent involved in the planning of this, even down to the choice of food stands and amusements."

"They won't think any the worse of you," said Porthos and d'Artagnan fixed him with warm, brown eyes.

"Then you don't understand children," he said bluntly. "They'll just feel let down by the adults."

All Porthos had ever felt was let down by adults, but he wasn't about to reveal that tidbit of information.

Aramis returned, looking none too happy. "It's true," he said. "The recreation ground was privately owned and so the council had no say in the matter at all."

"But that doesn't explain the sudden granting of planning permission for a retirement village without full public consultation," said Porthos, all fired up. It was his first day at work and there was a proper human interest story to write.

"If you grease enough palms in a rural town then you get what you want." Aramis swilled down his pint. "And Louis Bourbon has more than enough lube to go round." He shuddered. "Dear god, I wish I'd never said that."

"So," said Porthos. "We either take this lying down, or we fight it. At very least, we report on the corruption that's going on under everyone's noses. We'll do the piece on you, d'Artagnan, and combine it with a story about the recreation ground."

"Great," said d'Artagnan, "but we still need a venue for the tournament. It's three weeks away, and we've been told, in no uncertain terms, to stay clear of the rec, or the police will be involved."

"Appeal to Bourbon's better nature," suggested Porthos.

Aramis shook his head. "He doesn't have one. He feels slighted by everyone in Howerton. I'd ask his wife, Anne, to talk him round, but she has no influence with him whatsoever." 

"Then how about someone else," said Porthos. "Richewhatsit, your MP?"

"Now you're being ridiculous," said Constance, her lips tightening into a thin line. "He wouldn't waste the piss on his own granny if she was on fire." She looked thoughtfully into her vodka tonic, swirling the ice cubes. "But there is the Comte. He has a parkland up at the Manor."

"He has a wilderness," countered Aramis. "Plus he's reclusive to the point of being a hermit and the most bad tempered sod I've ever encountered."

"I thought you liked him?" grinned Porthos.

"I was trying to dwell on his positives," said Aramis, grinning back.

"And, let me guess, he positively has none." Porthos took a recorder out of his rucksack. "We’ll get this interview done and then we can head over to the rec and take some photos."


	3. Chapter 3

They chatted away non stop over lunch and, now that Porthos was aware of d'Artagnan's background, he was even more impressed with the kid. Growing up a farmer's son, he and his mother had been forced to sell everything when his father died, just to pay off the debts. They'd then had to move to a city council estate, which had been a terrible shock to d'Artagnan. The boy had battled his way through bullying and humiliation, all the while taking care of his mum who was ill with depression, and cricket had turned out to be his saviour. Porthos looked on the sport with a newfound respect; he'd always thought there was a certain snobbery attached to it, but apparently he was wrong.

"That'll make good copy, my friend," said Aramis quietly as they were leaving the pub to go and do the photoshoot at the rec. "You're a natural."

"D’Artagnan’s a fighter," said Porthos. "I like him. It makes telling his story a cinch."

By chance, as they were walking past the supermarket, Constance spotted that battered old Jag parked outside. "Now's our opportunity," she whispered, peering through the expanse of glass.

Porthos didn’t get the point of the exercise, but he was interested to see what kind of reaction the man would show at being set upon by a couple of earnest youngsters. Not a lot, he imagined.

It was easy to know when the Comte was approaching by the tuneless chinking of his carrier bags, and as he wandered past, coat wrapped around him despite the warmth of the summer's day, Porthos wondered if he actually bothered to buy any food to soak up the alcohol. It certainly didn't sound like it.

"Excuse me," said Constance brightly, side stepping in between him and his getaway vehicle.

"What?" snapped de la Fère in his usual charming manner. "I'm busy."

Constance stuck her ground and when the man looked from side to side, Porthos caught sight of a pair of startlingly pretty blue eyes that were wary to the point of anxious. 

"I really have to go," he added awkwardly.

"Just a quick question," said d'Artagnan, stepping forward after a determined nudge from Constance. "I coach the Howerton junior cricket team and we were due to host a big tournament in a fortnight, but the recreation ground's been sold for development."

Porthos was amazed because the Comte was not only listening, but he was also looking at d'Artagnan with an expression that vaguely resembled sympathy. He and Aramis exchanged glances.

"That's a shame, but what does it have to do with me?" said de la Fère.

"Well, we were wondering if we could host the tournament at the Manor," said d'Artagnan. "We'd get the place ready and provide everything. All you'd have to do is lend us your grounds for a day."

For a moment the man looked as if he were wavering and then that steel returned. "I'd help if I could, but I'm afraid it's impossible." Loading the bags into the back of his car, he jumped in and then drove off in a good imitation of a drunken rally driver.

"It was worth a shot," said d'Artagnan, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Shall we get those photos done now?"

"I don't think we should give up on him just yet," mused Constance as she walked with them down to the recreation ground.

Aramis looked across at her. "Shouldn't you be selling people hats?"

"Fleur's in the shop today and we're not exactly snowed under," said Constance. "Nor will we ever be again if there are no more vintage dance nights in Howerton." She may have sounded glum, but there was a determined look on her face. "I bet the Manor would be a brilliant place for holding those sort of events."

"He said no, Constance," said Aramis, taking some shots of d'Artagnan in the midst of a pretend batting swing and then with the Bourbon Development sign as a backdrop. "You can't pester him into playing genial host."

Porthos, however, had been thinking differently, and was more inclined to agree with Constance over this. He'd seen a flash of humanity on the man's face; something about d'Artagnan appealed to whatever dregs of a good nature remained and it was surely worth exploiting. He watched Aramis taking photographs, thinking back to some of their conversations over the last two days. "Didn't you say that whoever owned the Manor was obliged to honour town traditions?"

"Theoretically yes," said Aramis, packing away his camera. "However no one's ever going to enforce it."

"But it might just turn out to be the incentive he needs to say yes," said Constance, throwing her arms around Porthos and hugging the air out of him. "Come on. Let's give it another go."

“But why?” said Aramis.

“Because at least then we’ll know we’ve tried everything,” said d’Artagnan, smiling at Constance. 

Those two matched each other for spirit, thought Porthos. 

As they passed the garage he made a mental note to put his car in for a quote on the bodywork repairs. "Maybe the Comte will remember his _noblesse oblige_ ,” he said, really hoping for d'Artagnan’s sake that something would come out of this.

"More likely his _casse toi_ ," said Aramis as they piled into his Citroën. "But what the hell. Anything for a laugh, I always say." 

Once again, they whizzed along country lanes and Porthos was beginning to feel a distinct sense of déjà vu. This time, however, they turned into the long driveway of the Manor and he was struck by how much more beautiful and more decayed the house was in close up. 

The lime mortar in between the stunning herringbone brickwork was blown and the chimney stacks looked as if they were about to topple. Dozens, if not hundreds of the small of panes of glass were broken and sealed with what looked like cardboard and duct tape. Aramis was also right about the gardens being a wilderness: one which had been out of control for decades. It had to be the most hopeless venue for a cricket tournament ever.

"This ain't gonna work," he muttered under his breath.

Jangling the bell, Constance stepped to one side, strategically allowing d’Artagnan to front the deputation.

It took a while, but eventually the door opened with a sepulchral creak, as if it were unused to yielding to anyone, and de la Fère glared out at them, a pair of glasses pushed to the top of his head, which at least indicated that he'd been reading as well as drinking.

"Oh, it’s you lot. I remember quite distinctly saying no earlier," he snapped and as Constance peered around him to get a look inside the house he stepped out onto the flagstone porch, shutting the door behind him. "I'll say it with emphasis this time. No!"

"But the kids would be so happy and everything's already arranged and paid for," said d'Artagnan. "Please."

De la Fère cocked his head to one side, eyes softening as he stared at the young man. "As I said before, I'd love to help, but I'm afraid it's impossible." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his tatty cardigan. "There are genuine reasons," he added in a voice that was growing more compassionate with every syllable.

Against his better judgment, Porthos’ interest was ignited. Aramis was right; there was something intriguing about the air of secrecy that surrounded the man, ‘though the most likely explanation for it was that he'd fucked up job and marriage due to his drinking then run off here to hide.

"But Squire," said Aramis, in a terrible rural accent. "We needs your 'elp."

Was that a smile tugging at the corner of de la Fère's mouth?

"We really do," said d'Artagnan earnestly.

Again the Comte's expression softened, and Porthos was growing less and less convinced that there had been a failed marriage in his past. At least not one to a woman.

"If you dare tell me to think of the children."

"Think of the poor children, Squire," said Aramis, his hands clasped together and his eyelashes fluttering, and there it was again, an undeniable smirk lighting up the Comte's schooled features. 

Damn, he was a handsome man when he stopped frowning. Porthos was shocked by his sudden flare of attraction, especially to a guy who was clearly interested in someone else. "To be honest, I can't see that there's anywhere suitable for a cricket pitch here," he said, wanting to escape as soon as possible to write up his piece for the paper, amongst other things.

For the first time since they’d met, de la Fère focused on him with neither disdain nor apathy on his face. "Actually there is, or rather there _was_ a croquet lawn at the back. It's a field at present, but at least it's flat. It may suit your purpose."

"Are you saying yes?" said d'Artagnan, his eyes widening in disbelief, and when the Comte didn't refute this the kid lurched forward, hugging the man and kissing him on each cheek. "Thank you so much."

Staggering away from the unexpected embrace, de la Fère’s face was flushed. "I'm saying it's a possibility, on the strict condition that you arrange it all yourselves. Also, there must be no mention of my name in that rag you call a paper."

"It's a deal, Monsieur le Comte," said Aramis. "We promise we’ll never bother you again."

"I knew you were lovely," said Constance, laughing when de la Fère glared at her.

"Far from it," he said icily. "Hopefully this will discharge me from my feudal responsibilities. Have a look at the field to see if it's suitable and then go away."

Following the man around the side of the house, past the coaching yard and stables, Porthos couldn’t help but notice he had a pronounced limp. He must have been putting on a brave front earlier.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a low voice. "Aramis was right. That was a nasty fall you had this morning."

“Just a twisted ankle.” De la Fère smiled at him. “But thank you for asking.”

It was almost amicable between them and perhaps it would have been the perfect time for Porthos to mention the car, but for some reason he didn't want to spoil the moment.

As they arrived at the far side of the Manor, Constance gasped in amazement. "It's beautiful," she said, a husky quality to her voice as if she'd just fallen in love.

Porthos understood. Broken stone steps led down to what would once have been a vast lawned area. Left to its own devices, it had grown wild into a meadow, with flowers of every colour woven in and out of the grass stalks and seed heads that rippled in the breeze. In the distance, the river wandered lazily past, bulrushes growing high on the far bank, and Porthos had never seen a more tranquil spot.

"I have no idea what the ground is like under all that," said de la Fère, "but I'm sure the council employ a man with a mower and a roller." Leaving them to it, he limped up the steps. "Do what you like with it."

"Thank you so much," said d'Artagnan. "I hope there won't be too many broken windows."

The Comte shrugged in a very French fashion. "I doubt I'd even notice." Before disappearing inside a set of doors, he turned and looked directly at Aramis. "I must also insist on no pictures being published of either myself or the house. It's a matter of great importance."

"I _can_ photograph the tournament?" said Aramis.

"Of course and as many ice cream vans, balloon animals and fat parents as you like, but not the house."

"Or our benevolent Squire," grinned Aramis.

This time, the Comte didn't raise even a shadow of a smile. "I’ve made myself quite clear on the matter," he said curtly and then he disappeared inside.

"That was a 'fuck off' if ever I heard one," laughed Porthos as they walked back through the yard.

"Strange bloke," muttered Aramis.

"He was much nicer than I expected," said d'Artagnan.

"Olivier does suit him after all," said Constance, bouncing on tip toes to get a look inside the windows as they walked past. "Bloody hell, the kitchen’s a museum," she said in awe. 

Porthos took a peek, expecting to see a seventeenth century cooking range, and instead finding something that had been remodelled in the early twentieth, by the look of it.

"How can I get a proper look inside?" said Constance. "I _need_ to see it."

"I’d suggest sleeping with him, but I have a feeling you're not his type." Aramis smirked at Porthos.

Constance looked offended at first and then the light dawned. “I'll keep wearing him down. I’m very persistent when I want to be,” she said, rubbing her hands together.

"Watch out, d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, who was in troublemaker mood, smiling innocently when the young man stared at him without a clue as to what he was talking about.

“You git,” muttered Constance, loud enough for just Porthos and Aramis to hear. “I’ll make you pay for that.”

“Just helping romance to blossom,” whispered Aramis and then he grabbed her and waltzed her to the car, laughing as she beat him with her Vuitton handbag.

“They’re very strange too,” said d’Artagnan in that serious way of his.

“But adorable with it,” said Porthos.

“God yes,” said the kid with a quick but telling glance their way, and it seemed highly likely the Comte was destined to be unlucky in love.


	4. Chapter 4

Back at the office, Porthos started work on his article, earbuds in as he transcribed the earlier conversation and formed it into an interview. Aramis and co were already in the pub, no doubt discussing plans for the cricket tournament, and Porthos would have loved nothing more than to join them, but he wanted to be a success and, for that to happen, he needed to take this job seriously.

The piece was coming along well; d'Artagnan's life story and newfound success as a professional sportsman slid naturally into his involvement with the local cricket club and the current drama that surrounded the sale of the recreation ground. His focus at the end was on the sudden and inexplicable granting of planning permission, and he rounded up by returning to d'Artagnan and his cricketing hopes for the future.

Even though it was long past six, Treville was still beavering away in his office and, having emailed him the draft, Porthos sat back in his chair, fingers laced behind his neck, a picture of utter contentment. Never had his words appeared on a page with such clarity of thought and strength of conviction.

When he was finally called in to speak to the boss, he was, to be frank, expecting a pat on the back, but instead the editor peered sternly at him over the top of his half moon glasses.

"It's good, up to a point," he said. "Take out all the stuff about planning permission and corruption and concentrate, instead, on d'Artagnan's career and the junior tournament."

"But-" spluttered Porthos.

"No buts," said Treville firmly. "You have no evidence whatsoever. This is pure conjecture and you're not paid to write op eds."

Porthos stared silently at the floor as if he were a schoolboy hauled in front of the headteacher. 

"I also happen to know that all the correct procedures were followed, to the letter, if not the spirit of the law," continued Treville.

"What if I was to dig around and find some evidence of corruption?" said Porthos.

"Then that would be a different matter entirely, but I would strongly advise you not to do it." Treville’s lips thinned. "Tread carefully, young man. You've got yourself a good job in a nice town, so be content with that. Write about the school plays and the dog shows and the cricket tournament and stay out of local politics. It's more complicated than it seems."

"But we're supposed to be reporting things of public interest," muttered Porthos.

"And so we are," said Treville. "You've done a good first piece. Rewrite the copy with full emphasis on d'Artagnan, then send it to me with photographs by tomorrow afternoon."

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Treville stared at the monitor and Porthos knew he'd been dismissed. Trudging back to his desk, he packed everything into his rucksack and left the office, feeling, quite honestly, as if he could get into his car and bugger off back to London for good. He would have done, except that quitting had never been his style. He wouldn't have got this far in life if it had.

Trying to make up his mind whether he wanted to drown his sorrows in beer or tea, he thought about his new bunch of friends and set off across the road to the Cocks.

"Here's our man," said Aramis, getting up to shift his chair along and drag in another from nearby.

Quite a crowd had gathered, tables had been pushed together to fit everyone in, and Porthos felt unusually awkward. He wasn’t the shy and retiring type.

"It's okay," said a quiet voice from beside him. "We're not actually as terrifying as we look en masse. I'm Alice."

The girl was gorgeous with soft features and a serene smile. "Porthos," he said, his spirits lifting. "Pleased to meet you."

A pint magically appeared in front of him and, with such great company and good beer available on tap, Porthos wondered how he could have ever considered leaving Howerton, even for a second. 

It turned out that Alice was a teacher in the local infant school and had recently split up from her husband. She was still raw from the break up, and Porthos wasn't going to push things, but she was attractive and intelligent and he liked her a lot.

"You and Alice are getting along well," said Aramis as they stood together at the bar, ordering a final round of drinks.

"Yeah, she's nice," said Porthos. "Really easy to talk to." They hadn't had to make conversation, it had just happened, and all that irritation about having to tone down his article had vanished into thin air after an hour or so of gentle flirtation.

"Pretty too," said Aramis with a wink. "So, Adele's coming back to ours."

"Not bothering with that Indian then?" laughed Porthos.

"Adele's hot enough for me."

"That's dreadful, mate," smirked Porthos. "I'd never repeat that phrase again, if I were you."

"Shut up," said Aramis with a grin. "I was thinking you should invite Alice back to the cottage too."

"Bit soon," said Porthos warily. "She _has_ just split up with her husband."

"Such a gentleman not wanting to rush things." Aramis picked up a tray that was stacked with drinks.

"More like self preservation," admitted Porthos, carrying the second tray over to the table. "I've been a rebound guy before. It didn't go well."

When it was chucking out time, Porthos said a friendly goodnight to Alice and took over his role as third wheel, accompanying Aramis and Adele on their meandering path back to the cottage. Once inside, he made himself scarce, hoping that the beer would lull him to sleep quickly.

By three in the morning, during yet another round of the sex olympics that were taking place in the master bedroom, Porthos regretted being such a gentleman. His bed was creaky and, despite the fact that the sounds of fucking could drown out an incoming missile attack, Porthos had no desire to alert Aramis as to what he was doing.

Slipping out of bed, he took off his boxers and, sitting on the wide ledge of the window, he slicked up with spit and wrapped a hand around himself. There was an added thrill from being exposed this way and the cool night air was a relief to his overheated body.

He began a slow stroke, imagining Alice here with him, crouched down at his feet and about to take his cock into her mouth. He couldn't fix the picture into his mind and, thumb flicking over his swollen knob, he laid her mentally in the bed, fingers dipping into herself as he knelt between her spread legs and wanked hard.

The sounds from the other bedroom built in volume, urging him on, and, unable to help himself, Porthos replaced Alice with Olivier de la Fère, who was now laid out beneath him in naked fantasy form, open ready to receive him, his cock, at full erection, pressed taut against his belly, leaking out a river of precome that pooled in the furrow of his hip bones.

"God, fuck," muttered Porthos, his hand flying over his hard length. In his mind he was braced on an arm, the wet head of his dick searching out that indent as he pushed inside, the tunnel of his fist modelling the tight heat he would feel if he were actually... "Fuck!" he cried again, muffling the expletive with the crook of his elbow as he came in endless gouts over the wide oak floorboards.

He'd never had such an explicit fantasy before--normally it was a muddle of faces and bodies--and as he knelt and cleaned up his mess with a handful of tissues he felt inordinately shameful. Not because he'd had a wank over a guy--he'd screwed plenty of them during his drug addled, sex addicted past--but because he'd climaxed to a graphic vision of fucking the Comte de la Fère: a man he didn't even like.


	5. Chapter 5

A bland version of his article now filed with Treville, Porthos tried his best to take the editor’s advice and forget all about the corruption and dirty dealings that simmered away beneath the surface of Howerton.

Confessing to d’Artagnan that his story would no longer have the impact he’d wanted it to was an embarrassing thing to have to do, but the young man didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, happy enough that the junior tournament was back on track. Porthos was also pretty convinced that the guy’s thoughts were occupied by some _one_ rather than some _thing_. He was tired of seeing both Constance and d’Artagnan moping around the place. They needed a shove in the right direction.

He’d been living in Howerton for two weeks now and, after several boring interviews with pillars of the community and local shop owners, was feeling the urge to rattle some cages. It had been the biggest buzz ever to have a byline, but he wanted to have his name attached to a story with some actual substance to it. He’d been on at Treville to get him an interview with Louis Bourbon, but they’d been stonewalled at every attempt. The king was far too busy to bother with the little people whose lives he was thoughtlessly destroying.

Today was yet another right off and Porthos sighed long and loud. Aramis was busy doing a commission and the only vaguely newsworthy thing happening in the whole of the local area was the preparation of the wicket up at the Manor. So, here he was, sat at the top of that precarious flight of stone steps, mulling over the direction his life was taking, whilst watching a man with a roller going up and down, up and down, never getting anywhere. The metaphor was too depressing for words.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” came a cultured voice from beside him, jerking him out of his gloomy round of thoughts. “There’s a pot made in the kitchen.”

Porthos looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun with the flat of his hand. It sounded like the Comte and it looked like the Comte, but the aloof attitude was missing, so it clearly couldn’t be him. Still, he wasn’t about to turn down a cuppa. “Thanks, I’d love one,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m parched.”

“And bored stupid apparently,” said de la Fère with a quirk of his eyebrow. “If _I’m_ taking pity on you then you must look sorry for yourself.”

Porthos couldn’t think of a smart retort and so he followed the man through glazed doors and into what turned out to be a wonderful world of wackiness.

“This place,” he said, his jaw dropping as he looked around the vast room.

“Mad, isn't it,” said the Comte. “I had no idea what to expect when I bought the Manor, but it certainly wasn’t this.”

At either end of the great hall were huge Jacobean overmantels, sculpted with shields, biblical figures and heraldic beasts, all of them looking down onto the immense portland stone fireplaces below. Some of the panelling was period, but much of it had been ripped away, the walls now painted in a deep shade of eau de nil. The rooms were furnished in authentic Art Deco style, with fan backed black and white sofas and deep chairs with elegant curves. Everything, from the gramophone to the chinoiserie screens and oversized ebony cocktail bar, was exactly as if the house existed in an ephemeral space between the wars. It was a beautiful, damp and derelict dream.

“Thankfully someone had it rewired, or I’m sure it would have burnt down by now,” said the Comte. “Instead it just leaks. Maybe I should put a collection box outside for repairs to the roof.”

Porthos had barely managed to say a word since he’d been in here. It was somehow horribly wrong and absolutely perfect all at the same time, the dark wood panelling and floors sitting comfortably alongside the Deco interiors. “Constance would kill to get a look at this,” he said eventually.

“I know,” said de la Fère with a smirk. “She’s been here every day for the past fortnight, always under a different pretext. She's a very inventive woman. I admire her tenacity.”

On second sight, the kitchen seemed tame compared to the rest of the house, and Porthos was amused to see that there actually was a pot of tea sitting on the counter. He’d asumed it must be a euphemism for claret.

“Despite what everyone thinks, I’m not entirely fuelled on alcohol,” said de la Fere, astute enough to be aware of Porthos’ surprise. Pouring two mugs, he fetched the milk from the fridge and grabbed a bag of sugar from the cupboard. “Shocking as it might seem, I even know how to place an order from Tesco.” 

Pouring a dash of milk into his mug, he hopped up onto the wide countertop where next to him was stacked a pile of overdue bills and newspapers. It must be his favourite spot, thought Porthos. A concept which was entirely too endearing for some reason.

“So,” the Comte continued. “What’s getting you down?”

Porthos looked at the man, amazed that he could read him so well. Amazed, perhaps, that he could be bothered to do so. “I dunno,” he said lamely, adding milk and sugar.

“If you don’t want to talk about it you _can_ just say so.” De la Fère smiled again, his eyes twinkling. “I’m not the sort to be offended.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Porthos grinned properly for the first time in a couple of days and felt himself relax. “I suppose I didn’t realise it would be this dull here. I thought there'd be a few decent things to write about, not just the opening of a new deli counter at the supermarket and the knitting bee at the WI.”

A shadow passed momentarily across de la Fère’s face. “It’s a small country town, Porthos. What did you expect?”

“I’m not even allowed to investigate the dodgy planning committee,” complained Porthos.

“If you want my advice, which you probably don’t,” said the Comte, “write about the bring and buy sales and the Women’s Institute, and stay well clear of the rest.”

These were so similar to Treville’s words that Porthos began to feel steam rollered, and he didn’t like it one bit. "But what's the bloody point of being here at all?"

"If you're annoyed because you think a local newspaper should be an easy stepping stone to the big time, then you're in the wrong business." The man looked curiously concerned. "But if you want to make a difference, then it's still possible."

"How?" asked Porthos.

"Porthos! I've been looking for you everywhere," said Constance, charging in through the kitchen door as if she was being chased by a pack of wild dogs.

"Why?" said Porthos. "What's wrong?" He knew full well there was nothing the matter.

Her face fell. "I er..."

"You should better prepare your stories in future," said the Comte with a genuine smile of amusement. "I suppose you may as well take a look around now that you're finally in."

"Oh my god, really? There’s nothing I’d like more," gushed Constance, totally unashamed of lying through her teeth and gatecrashing their tea party. She was a force to be reckoned with.

"What did you mean about making a difference?" said Porthos as they followed along behind the over excited woman, who was practically dancing her way through corridors and into rooms, her face lighting up at each new discovery.

"You don't necessarily have to write a piece to tell the world what's happening," said de la Fère. "Take the sale of the recreation ground to Bourbon Developments. Investigate other towns where he's done the same thing. Find out the impact it's had on them. Galvanise a local campaign, some passive resistance. Demonstrations outside the rec etcetera. Find out who's on the planning committee, usually business men who won't want to lose their reputation. Pass on what you're doing to the local radio and TV news. There are hundreds of things that are far more constructive than sulking." De la Fère shrugged. "Still, if it's a byline in The Times you're after, then none of that will help."

"You're an evil sod," grinned Porthos. He'd been expecting to make the full acquaintance of a drunken, socially inept inbred -- albeit a handsome one. Instead, it was more like being interviewed by Jeremy Paxman.

The Comte quirked an amused eyebrow. "Just trying to add a little focus to your life." Unscrewing the cap from a bottle of red he found on a sideboard, he poured out three glasses and passed them around. "And now it's time to lose it again."

Who _are_ you, wondered Porthos as de la Fère led them up the staircase to the first floor, passing several buckets that were strategically placed on the treads to catch any rainwater that might drip through the decaying roof.

"This would be my favourite room in the house," he said, opening a door. "That's if the boiler wasn't always on the blink. I don't think my predecessors here were overly keen on washing."

Porthos stared at an enamel bath that was big enough to swim lengths. Every piece of porcelain was in perfect condition as if it had been installed yesterday, and the black and white tiles on both floor and walls were immaculate.

"This whole house is wonderful. Please say we can have the Winter Finding and after party here," begged Constance. "Everyone in town would love you for it. I'd adore you forever."

"I don't want to be adored; I want to be left alone," said the Comte, finishing his glass, and refilling it from the bottle he carried with him.

Porthos, however, was beginning to doubt this. At times the man seemed starved of company.

"There'll be no Winter Finding this year if you don't help us," said Constance. "And you must know how much local business depends on it."

"Which is why you should be campaigning to save the recreation ground," said de la Fère, but Porthos grinned because he could tell the man was already defeated.

"That's the long term solution, I agree,” said Constance, ”and believe me we’ll try, but in the meantime please say yes to the fayre and dance being held here."

"A dance?"

"Vintage night," explained Constance. "Wartime theme. Your house would be ideal for it."

"No. Can't do it," said de la Fère, perching wearily on the edge of the bath. "It would be a logistical nightmare. Absolutely not."

"We'd already have the portaloos installed for the Winter Finding,” Constance said, gazing at the bewildered man with huge and hopeful eyes. “We wouldn't serve either food or alcohol so no licences would be required. We’d have ticketed entry to keep the numbers down. It's a piece of cake. I’m used to organising these things."

As they wandered through the upstairs of the house, Porthos glanced into the many bedrooms and was treated to a World According to Jeeves and Wooster. It was a crime to have remodeled the house in this way, but also impossible to deny its beauty. Next to him, Constance and the Comte were still deep in negotiation.

"We'll only use the great hall. It has its own entrance so you can block off the rest of the house," pleaded Constance. "Honestly, you won't even know we're here."

"You're talking about moving all the furniture out to have a jazz band play and you think I'm not going to notice?"

It was fascinating to watch a man's will being eroded, and Porthos wished he had a sprinkling of Constance’s magical powers. It would work a treat when he was conducting difficult interviews.

"You're no help at all," said de la Fère, glaring at Porthos as he limped back into the kitchen.

"I’m not stupid. I wouldn't dare come between a woman and her vintage themed party," grinned Porthos.

"So, it's a yes then," squealed Constance and when the Comte didn’t deny this she jumped for joy straight into his arms, kissing him on both cheeks and then racing, at full pelt, out of the back door. "I must go tell everyone."

"This is ridiculous," grumbled de la Fère. "Now there's a sports tournament _and_ a party happening here."

"And the Winter Finding," said Porthos helpfully.

De la Fère stared at him in horror. "Did I say yes to that too? I don’t remember."

Porthos had a worrying urge to fall into those eyes and drown a happy man. Oh dear fuck. "I think she added it to the list when you weren't paying attention."

"Damn." De la Fère sighed. "This isn't-" That shadow was present again. "I’m really sorry, but if you don't mind I've got some work to be getting on with."

His eyes flickered over to a case of bottles on the dresser and Porthos knew when he was no longer wanted.


	6. Chapter 6

In a definite change for the better, the following week was incredibly busy. Porthos and Aramis were drafted in to help erect tents and build trestles up at the Manor. They were also in charge of organising prizes and getting trophies engraved and, by the end of it, Porthos was so exhausted he didn’t even have the energy for a wank. A good thing too, because his brain was growing all too fond of stripping the Comte de la Fère naked and posing him in every filthy, dirty, compromising position possible, all for the sake of fifteen minutes worth of pleasure. He was beginning to wish he'd never met the bloke with his pretty eyes, cupboard full of skeletons and mood that turned on a sixpence.

The day of the cricket tournament arrived, the weather gorgeous enough to hide the Manor’s rather obvious flaws and turn the grounds into a temporary sporting paradise. 

Porthos had to admit that the place was looking good. The wilderness at the front had been cut back into a manageable woodland and the paths had all been weeded and swept. The wide wooden gates of the coaching yard had been opened as an entrance and the paved area in front of it was being used for parking.

The biggest transformation of all, however, had happened at the rear of the house, where that vast expanse of unloved croquet lawn had been mowed and rollered into submission until it had taken on the appearance, if not the quality, of an actual cricket pitch.

The whole estate was buzzing with excitement. Refreshment and entertainment stalls were being set up, and the Comte’s horse, strangely named Roger, had been let loose into the paddock, where he was leaning over the top rail and whickering for attention.

“This place is coming back to life,” said Constance as she wandered passed Porthos, dressed to the nines in WWII WAF uniform, to hand out flyers advertising the dance. “I wish he’d stop hiding and enjoy himself along with the rest of us.”

Porthos knew who she was talking about. Despite the fact he’d spent much of the past week here, he hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of de la Fère. The man must in the biggest sulk ever at being railroaded into playing Lord of the Manor.

“Oh, look there’s d’Artagnan,” said Constance. “Doesn’t he look gorgeous in his whites?” 

Without waiting for a reply, she bustled off to say hello and with his recorder in hand, ready for any off the cuff interviews and vox pops, Porthos followed, hoping to spot a beer tent on the way, but sadly everywhere today seemed to be selling either squash or ice lollies.

The tournament was soon underway, a bunch of little ones playing Kwik Cricket matches in the far paddock, Roger watching on with interest. D’Artagnan meanwhile was a star, organising the juniors effortlessly in the limited overs games and making sure everything stayed fun, friendly and sporting.

Aramis sat on the grass, a safe distance away, taking pictures and occasionally picking up his sketch pad to scribble away if something caught his eye.

“I have beers in my camera bag,” he whispered conspiratorially as Porthos sank down beside him. “I smuggled them in.”

“You’re a bloody godsend,” said Porthos, patting him on the back and helping himself to a can. “I haven’t a clue what’s going on. I’ll have to look at the score sheets afterwards and ask d'Artagnan for a summary.”

“Well, you’ll definitely have _something_ to write about,” said Aramis, nudging him and pointing in the direction of a young couple, dressed more appropriately for a garden party at Buckingham Palace than an under sixteens cricket gala. He was wearing a pristine white suit and panama hat whilst she was drifting around in chiffon and lace, twirling a parasol.

“Who the hell are they?” said Porthos, staring at them in shock..

“Louis and Anne Bourbon,” said Aramis. “I’m amazed he had the gall to turn up after the furore over his retirement village.”

Porthos was off the blocks like a world champion sprinter. He had a fair few things to ask His Majesty, all in the name of community spirit of course.

“Don’t blot your copybook just yet,” shouted Aramis. “Be careful.”

“I will,” said Porthos. He may be a lot of things, but he was no fool.

The Bourbons were doing the tour of all the sideshows and stalls, having a go on the tombola and coconut shy, whilst graciously accepting free drinks from the refreshment stand.

“Mr Bourbon,” said Porthos, butting in with his recorder in hand. “I’m Porthos du Vallon of the Howerton News. Thank you for supporting the community today.”

“I’m here for the children.” Louis looked snootily up at Porthos. “I’ve been asked by the Mayor to present trophies to the winning teams. An honour, I suppose.” 

“And are you impressed how Charles d'Artagnan and his friends successfully relocated the tournament at such short notice?”

“They’ve cobbled it together well, yes.”

“Do you have any comment to make on your purchase of the town recreation ground, which made this relocation necessary in the first place?”

“That was a simple business deal.”

“And how will a large retirement village in Howerton benefit anything but your own bank account?”

“Thank you, Mr Vallon, but I have no time to answer any further questions.” Turning away, Louis offered Anne his arm and together they walked over to the pitch to take a seat in the small stand and watch the current match that was playing.

Also newly arrived was the Member of Parliament of Howerton, dressed in a sleek, dark suit with his bodyguard, Labarge, at his shoulder, both of them glaring at anyone who dared come too close.

Porthos wasn’t about to be intimidated. “Good afternoon, Mr Richelieu,” he said amiably. “It’s a pleasure to see you here.”

“I like to support my constituents.” The man looked around him. “I was hoping to finally make the acquaintance of our generous benefactor today. It seems a trifle odd that he’s lived here for so long and yet hardly anyone seems to know him.”

“I’ve met him several times,” said Porthos, regretting his words immediately. He was supposed to be a shrewd journalist and instead was allowing Richelieu to pump _him_ for information. “But only in regard to setting up this tournament,” he added hastily. “We’re hardly what you’d call close.” Apart from during the occasional masturbatory fantasy.

“Perhaps we’ll see him later,” said Richelieu, craftily avoiding any actual questions and gliding off to talk to Bourbon.

“I’m a crappy reporter,” sighed Porthos, slumping back down beside Aramis and grabbing a second illicit lager from his camera bag.

“Don’t put yourself down,” said Aramis, snapping away at the team of excited boys and girls who’d just won the Kwik Cricket and were being presented with medals. “Oh look. The elusive Comte has finally emerged from his castle.”

Without the aid of a zoom, Porthos could just make out the figure of de la Fère, standing by the paddock fencing and feeding his horse a handful of treats. “Maybe he’ll give me a few lines for my article,” he said hopefully. “I need something to write about that’s of more interest than the results.”

“I’m not missing this for the world.” Picking up his stuff Aramis tagged along. "You’re going to get shot down in style, mi amigo. He specifically asked to be kept out of the paper.”

They weren’t, however, the only ones to have spotted the Comte and as they approached they could hear d’Artagnan speaking quietly to the man.

“I can’t thank you enough for this. The kids are having the best day ever. _I’m_ having the best day ever.”

Porthos and Aramis came to a halt and, hidden from sight by the thicket of trees that surrounded the stable block, they listened in to the conversation. They were members of the press after all. It was their job. 

“I hardly did anything spectacular,” replied de la Fère dismissively.

“Some of these children have really tough lives,” said d’Artagnan. “A day out like this can make all the difference.”

Porthos understood that well enough. He’d not had the benefit of a local sports team or youth club to compensate for his godawful family. Instead, he’d had his friends from the Court teaching him all about recreational drugs and crime. 

“So, I’m thanking you on their behalf, as well as mine.” Stepping forward, d’Artagnan clasped a handful of the Comte’s shirt then leaned in quickly and kissed him on the mouth.

Convinced that de la Fère would take advantage and turn this in a more passionate direction, Porthos was surprised when he pushed the young man firmly away with a fond yet wary look on his face. He was also surprised by the sound of a shutter and spun around to glare at Aramis who had his camera raised.

Dragging the photographer away from their vantage point, Porthos felt ridiculously defensive. “He asked you not to take any pictures of him.”

“I’m an artist,” said Aramis with a shrug, showing Porthos the image. “It was a nice moment.”

“It was a private moment.” Porthos felt shitty for intruding. “Bin it,” he insisted. “I’m off to talk to the new champions and their parents.” Without giving Aramis a second glance he stalked away, as annoyed with himself for being invasive as he was with the photographer.

After twenty minutes of interviews with hyperactive children and ecstatic parents, he watched the Juniors collect their trophies. To round things up, the Bourbons were presented with flowers by the Mayor’s daughter as if they were visiting royalty. It was a sycophantic way to end what had been an enjoyable event.

Plonking himself on the grass next to Porthos, Aramis passed over his sketch book to show him a cartoon he’d drawn of an effeminate Louis dressed up like a Regency dandy. It was brilliantly done and Porthos spluttered with laughter. “I wish you’d present that to him,” he muttered under his breath.

“I’ll post it to him anonymously,” said Aramis with a wink.

Porthos thumbed through the sketch book. “These are top stuff, mate,” he said, looking at the drawing of Anne, floating on air in her angelic dress. There was a lovely one of Constance in her WAF uniform and opposite her, a handsome d’Artagnan in full cricketing gear. “It’s me,” he said, turning the page and looking in surprise at the next drawing.”It’s cool.” The following one, however, was quite painful. Aramis had done a quick sketch of the Comte and had captured all that sadness in a few skilfull strokes of his pencil.

“I’m sorry about the photograph,” said Aramis. “It was crass of me and I’ve deleted it. Am I forgiven?”

“Of course you are, buddy,” said Porthos and he grinned full beam at Aramis. “After we help tidy things away I reckon we deserve to get rat arsed tonight. Tomorrow’s Sunday so we can sleep off our hangovers all day if we need to.”

“You’re on, my friend,” said Aramis and, spotting d’Artagnan, they hurried over to see what needed to be done.

After two hours spent clearing the detritus, when they’d finished loading the final stack of chairs into the lorry, Porthos decided it was time to take a breather. He was thirsty, and with all the drinks now packed away in boxes he took a chance and sneaked into the kitchen of the Manor to grab a glass of water.

The sight that greeted him was worrying. There were far too many empty wine bottles for comfort’s sake. A sensible man would swallow some water and get the hell out of there. It wasn’t as if the Comte’s excessive boozing was a secret, but it _was_ a problem and one Porthos couldn’t walk away from. He’d come close to being destroyed by drugs. He had friends whose entire lives had been wrecked. He had friends who were dead because of their addictions.

The house was eerily quiet, cold despite the warmth of the day, and Porthos shivered as he peered into the great hall only to find it deserted. The bedroom was his next port of call. He'd spotted one that seemed lived in on his last visit and, opening the door, he looked inside to find an unmade monstrosity of a bed, but unfortunately no owner.

Concern growing, he checked the bathroom and other unfurnished bedrooms and then clattered back down the stairs to resume his search of the ground floor. A noise from behind a door, partially obscured by the sweeping rise of the staircase, finally alerted him to the Comte's whereabouts and, nervously, he turned the handle to find himself in a study.

It would have been a beautiful room if it wasn’t for the gruesome combination of smashed glass and wine which covered the rug and walls and dripped blood coloured claret. De la Fère was the saddest sight of all, huddled on the floor, surrounded by empties and quite clearly pissed out of his brain.

Porthos decided to go in heavy. "What the fuck have you done to yourself, mate?"

De la Fère looked up at him through unfocused eyes. "Wha-"

It wasn't even a question, just a slurred word, and Porthos knelt next to him, avoiding the pools of wine and scattering of broken glass. This was a puzzle; the man had seemed no more drunk than usual a couple of hours ago. "If this binge has got something to do with d'Artagnan then you should tell him how you feel."

De la Fère sobered up enough to look at Porthos in astonishment. "'F'you think any of the pissants here in this shithole of a town mean anything to me, then you must be a complete and utter moron. Fucking cretinous local-"

Porthos had had enough. Hauling the man to his feet, he hustled him through to the kitchen then stuck his head under the cold tap, holding him in place for a minute or two. "Which one of us is the moron?" he muttered, unsure quite why he was trying to help. Some fantasy this had turned out to be. "Get upstairs," he snapped when de la Fère began to regain enough of his senses to stand on his own two feet.

Shoving him bodily up to his bedroom, Porthos pushed him onto the mattress and dragged the covers over him, not giving a damn about the wet clothes. The only concession he made was to grab one of the buckets from the landing and leave it beside the bed, in case he was sick. 

The man was a pathetic sight and it was so damn tempting to walk away from this mess, but Porthos couldn't do it. Instead he swept broken glass into a dustpan, mopped up wine and threw out the empties. After that, he made a mug of strong black coffee and carried that, plus a pint of water, to the bedroom, where the Comte looked up at him, hopeless, childlike even.

"Drink these before you go to sleep," said Porthos gruffly.

"Thank you." De la Fére's voice was still slurred from the effects of the alcohol. He swallowed the water in one go and then sank back onto the pillows. "Sorry about what I said. It was seeing that fucking-" He turned onto his side and his voice became too muffled to understand.

"Go to sleep," said Porthos, who wasn't interested in listening to any excuses from the man.

Leaving the kitchen in a slightly better state than he'd found it, he exited via the back door, where he was immediately waylaid by Aramis.

"Where the hell have you been hiding? I've been hunting for you everywhere. Your phone must be flat."

“Sorry.” Looking around him, Porthos realised that the Manor grounds were now deserted and he jabbed his thumb back over his shoulder in the direction of the house. "I was looking after that stupid wanker," he said grimly. "He'd drunk himself into a coma so I had to put him to bed."

"Oh." Aramis looked bemused, but then he didn't really know they were on speaking terms. "Will he be okay?"

"Couldn't give a toss," said Porthos, ‘though that wasn't strictly true. He didn't _want_ to give a toss about someone who considered him a cretinous pissant, only he was finding it hard to disengage. "Let's go and get hammered," he said, though his heart was no longer in it.


	7. Chapter 7

Doing his utmost to forget the Manor and its impossible owner, Porthos didn't, however, ignore the advice he'd been given by the man and, whilst everyone else was busy practicing mummers plays and growing metre long carrots, he was organising his Gandhi inspired campaign of passive resistance.

A few phone calls to Aramis' friend at the council offices revealed exactly who had a seat on the planning committee. Some carefully considered words in specific ears had caused definite waverings, but it wasn't yet time to ask for an appeal. More preparation was needed.

Porthos recruited Constance’s friend Flea to help him organise some planned opposition. The evening sit-ins outside the recreation ground by the school children were a media success, both local TV and radio clamouring to talk about how the huge development would affect the lives of the youngsters, and Porthos watched from the sidelines, feeling a real sense of achievement for the first time since he’d been here.

He also visited other rural communities that had been invaded by Bourbon Developments to find that they were a mirror of what was happening in Howerton. Worse still, they were an ugly vision of the future. The huge construction programs, with no thought of supplying necessary additional infrastructure, had caused havoc from the snarled up roads and the lack of provision for health care. After talking in depth to the residents of these communities, Porthos had garnered a vast amount of support for the plight of Howerton, no one wanting to see yet another rural town devastated because of greedy council men and landowners. The campaign was slowly gaining momentum.

Aware of what Porthos was doing, Treville wasn’t exactly an advocate, but at least he didn’t put his foot down. Any articles that needed to be written for the next edition of the paper--mostly about Winter Finding--were well thought out and filed on time. As well as being the town reactionary, Porthos was becoming the perfect local reporter and he was proud of himself.

Today was one of those bright autumnal mornings, the first to have a slight chill in the air, and the freshness invigorated Porthos as he strolled down the high street, popping into all the shops to deliver some new advertising for his campaign.

He’d become firm friends with the people here, and, even though he’d only lived in Howerton for a short while, it felt like home. He was being assimilated into the collective; soon he’d be baking harvest loaves and making jam and the scariest thing of all was that it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Stopping outside Voguette, he took a while to appreciate the effort Constance had put into the new season's window, which was dressed in harvest colours, with russet, gold and red leaves scattered around to highlight the selection of jumpers and cardigans. Porthos wasn’t great at dating period women’s wear, but it looked quite forties to him.

As he entered the shop, the bell above the door jangled loudly and Constance emerged from the back room, where she was often to be found making her own clothes, or altering vintage garments for customers. Voguette was much loved by young and old alike and Constance was always in demand. Her flat above the shop was covered in fabrics and patterns and people came from miles around to buy from her.

“Some new leaflets for you to force onto folks,” grinned Porthos.

“It’s not a case of forcing,” Constance said. “Everyone supports what you’re doing, love.” She looked at the new flyers. “These are fab.”

“It’s useful having an artist for a flatmate,” said Porthos, sticking a poster up in the window.

The artwork was in the style of the Your Country Needs You propaganda of the First World War, which was a nice companion to the WWII motivational advertising used for both Winter Finding and Wartime Dance.

“Aramis is so talented,” said Constance. “Have you seen the portrait he’s doing of Anne?” 

Porthos knew his friend was busy painting someone, but he had no idea it was Mrs Bourbon. “No, I haven’t.”

“You should ask him if you can have a look,” said Constance. “It’s gorgeous. She’s a lovely girl; it’s a shame her husband’s such a prick.”

Porthos wondered if he could encourage Aramis to have a poke around when he was up at the ‘palace’. Then again, that was probably the reason he hadn’t told him who he was being commissioned to paint. “Don’t forget to hand out those leaflets,” he said, grasping the door handle, ready to carry on his rounds.

“Not so quick, mister,” said Constance. “You need a costume for the dance. I’ve been buying in loads of stuff for the night, but I got this especially for you. I had a sneaky nose around your wardrobe last time I was at the cottage, and I’m sure it’ll fit.” Searching through the rail behind her, she took a hanger off the rack. “Overpaid, oversexed and over here.” She was positively beaming. “What do you think?”

It was the field uniform for an American WWII soldier, complete with boots, belt and side cap. Porthos loathed fancy dress in all shapes and forms, but he didn’t hate the idea of wearing this. It was authentic. “It’s pretty cool,” he admitted.

“You’ll look incredible,” said Constance, clapping with enthusiasm.

“How much?” said Porthos.

“Try it on at home and see if it’ll do,” said Constance, deftly evading the question of money.

“I love it,” said Porthos. “If it fits I’ll wear it, so how much do I owe you?”

“It’s a gift,” said Constance firmly. “If it hadn’t been for you then there wouldn’t be a dance at all.”

“How did you reach that conclusion?” said Porthos, completely puzzled. 

“It doesn’t matter how; just say you’ll take it.”

“Well, okay then. Thank you very much.” Porthos smiled gratefully, and watched as she bagged up the clothes.

“I can’t wait to see you dressed up,” said Constance. “Alice will love you in it.”

Thanking her again, Porthos left the shop, feeling a little guilty at the mention of Alice. He chatted to her often in the pub, but, unsure of his feelings, had never taken things further than that. A one night stand in a town this size would be a potential career killer, unless you were a loveable rogue like Aramis, who made it perfectly plain to all that he wasn't interested in settling down.

Unlocking the door of the cottage, Porthos carried the bags inside, dumping them in the usual spot under the stairs and putting the box of flyers down on the table. After making himself a mug of tea, he stretched out on the sofa, his legs dangling over the arm, looking forward to the cold weather when they’d be able to light fires in that oversized hearth. 

When he was a kid, winter had meant putting on as many sweatshirts as he could find and wrapping his thin quilt around him if he was really frozen. Since then, it had been the sterility of gas central heating. Toasting his feet in front of a log fire had always been a secret dream of his.

Having finished his tea, he was putting his mug back down on the table when he caught sight of a letter that had been partially obscured by the box of leaflets. It was handwritten, addressed to him by his full name, and he couldn't for the life of him imagine who’d be writing to him here at the cottage.

Opening it with care--he’d never received much mail in his life--Porthos discovered a note and a folded cheque. The address at the top was The Manor, Howerton and the contents read simply: _I have been remiss in paying for the damage to your car. Thank you and kind regards._

That was it. No signature, no addressee, nothing. The cheque was for a thousand pounds, which was more than enough to cover the garage bill, and Porthos didn’t know quite what to feel. After all this time, wanting nothing more than some compensation for the accident, now that he had the money in his hand, it turned out to be an awkward moment rather than a happy one. Staring at the elegant looped signature on the cheque, he remembered the many overdue bills piled on the counter in the Manor kitchen, and wondered what to do for the best. 

His instinct was to jump in his car and thank de la Fère personally, but, after successfully banishing him from his thoughts, he didn’t want to risk refreshing his memory. Nor did he want to discover the man in the same desperate state he’d been in last time. The Comte was a world of trouble and their dealings with each other were done. The sensible thing would be to cash the cheque--the money was owed to him after all--and stay away. So, why then did he keep re-reading that note?

To take his mind off things, Porthos carried the Voguette bags upstairs into his bedroom and stripped down to his boxers and socks. Laying the uniform out on the bed, he pulled on the coarse woollen trousers and tucked in the khaki shirt. With boots and belt fastened, it was time to slip on the jacket and cap and see how ridiculous he actually looked.

A different man stared back at him from the full length mirror on the door: someone who would belong in that 'tween worlds place he was trying so hard to forget. 

Undressing hastily, he hung the uniform up in the eaves cupboard, wondering how strange he’d feel venturing out in public wearing the bloody thing. His cock seemed to enjoy the idea, and Porthos tucked a sly hand inside his shorts to give it a quick rub. It was barely three in the afternoon and certainly not the time for this, but his body was insistent and, relaxing back on the bed, he gave into his needs, pulling himself off, quick and hard, with just one thing on his mind.

Less than five minutes after he’d come, he heard Aramis walk in the front door and was shaken to the core, knowing that he could easily have been caught in mid wank had he taken his usual amount of time. He hadn't even shut the bedroom door fully.

“Hello, mate,” he shouted, getting dressed and coming downstairs, hoping he didn’t look too flustered. “I’ve been trying on my outfit for the dance.”

“I don’t think I’ll be going,” said Aramis gloomily. “I can’t see the point.”

“What? Don’t be crazy,” said Porthos. “You’re the life and soul of the whole bloody town.”

“Not right now I’m not.” Aramis managed a weak smile. 

His bedroom _had_ been unusually quiet for sometime now. “What’s bugging you?” asked Porthos as he put the kettle on to boil.

“Nothing,” said Aramis. “Nothing at all.”

“Constance said you’d been doing a portrait of Anne,” said Porthos, having a bit of a fish while he was spooning coffee granules into mugs. “I’d love to see it sometime.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” moped Aramis, and then he groaned as if he were in actual physical pain. “But it’s in the studio if you absolutely insist on taking a look.”

Coffee mugs in hand, they fought their way through the overgrown vegetation down to the little summer house, and when Aramis revealed the painting Porthos was stunned. He had, if he was honest, been expecting a nude, but this was all the more dazzling _because_ Anne was clothed. The colours on the diaphanous dress contrasted with her pale cream skin, and with the light behind her she looked like a butterfly emerging into the blaze of the day. 

“This is your best work by miles,” said Porthos, almost lost for words. “I’m no expert, but I think it’s incredible.”

“It’s because I love her,” said Aramis simply. “I love her so much I haven’t tried to seduce her. I haven’t even flirted with her.”

“Does she feel the same way?” asked Porthos. He wasn't terribly good at being an agony aunt.

“I don’t know,” said Aramis, his hands clasped together. “I think she does. We talk about everything, except our feelings for each other. She's helped me so much.”

It was the first hint that Aramis had any worries and Porthos was annoyed with himself because he had no advice to offer. It didn’t seem right to encourage him to have an affair with a married woman that might quite likely end in heartbreak for both of them. “I don’t know what to say, Aramis, but I’m always here for you if you need a shoulder.”

“And I appreciate that more than anything,” said Aramis with more of his usual panache. “I’ll finish the painting, keep my trousers zipped and take Adele to the dance. How’s that for a plan of action?”

“Great,” said Porthos, smiling at his friend. His own love life was no less complicated. If anyone ever found out he'd fallen for his arch nemesis then he’d be a laughing stock. Here he was, a thirty year old man having furtive mid-afternoon wanks over an alcoholic recluse he’d only ever talked to a couple of times. It was a pitiful state of existence.

“Are you taking Alice?” asked Aramis.

“I don’t think so.” Porthos sighed. It would be disingenuous to ask her to the dance when his head was completely full of someone else. Life was much easier during that brief, three hour window when he hated the Comte de la Fère and fancied the knickers off Alice.

“Then you and I will be dates for the evening,” decided Aramis. “What are you wearing, my friend? I need to dress appropriately.”

“Constance found me a GI uniform.” Porthos grinned. “It’s pretty damn awesome.”

“Well, I’m not wearing a tea dress,” laughed Aramis, fully cheered up at last. “Maybe I’ll buy something spivvy and Latin.” he looked quizzically at Porthos. “Oh and talking of spivs, I noticed His Countship has paid you for the repairs. How long did you have to shake him for that to happen?”

“To be honest, I never actually got around to asking for the money,” admitted Porthos, slightly embarrassed at having to own up to that considering he’d made such a fuss about it. "You know what _does_ cure everything," he added, slinging an arm around Aramis' shoulder. "A massive, middle of the day fry up. You make the toast and microwave the beans. I'll cook the bacon and eggs."

"That sounds bloody marvellous," said Aramis. "Who needs women?"

Or men, added Porthos silently.


	8. Chapter 8

Porthos had been told many many times that Winter Finding was very important to Howerton, but he never knew _quite_ how special it was until the week of solstice dawned and the festivities began in earnest.

The festival was rooted in both pagan and Teuton tradition. It was a celebration of the final harvest of the year and the beginning of winter, when everyone bedded down and waited for the sun to return: the entry point into the dark half of the year.

Local orchards now stripped of their produce, the high street was decorated with garlands of leaves and berries and every building had baskets of apples placed outside the doors to symbolise a plentiful crop. There were candles in the windows, bunches of rosemary hung from the frames as a welcome, and the sense of burgeoning excitement was impossible to ignore. 

Every day there were rehearsals for the mummers plays and morris dancing, and Porthos could barely get through a morning without seeing masked faces peering in the window of the News. He did his best to ignore the continual convoy of vehicles driving out of town and up towards the Manor, not sparing a thought for how the Comte was coping with a neverending influx of cretinous pissants.

On the eve of the fayre, Porthos and Flea organised a candlelit demonstration at the recreation ground, taking advantage of the effort the people had put into decorating Howerton. This time it wasn't just children taking part. Almost everybody turned up, except those from the big houses, and d'Artagnan had even persuaded his mates from the county team to show their faces for an hour or two.

Happy to take a back seat, Porthos watched the TV news reporter interview the cricketers and the Mayor about how important Winter Finding was to the community and how the loss of the recreation ground had impacted them all.

"You should be the one they're talking to," said Aramis, handing him a mulled apple juice, spiced with a dash of rum from the flask in his pocket.

"Not at all," said Porthos, remembering de la Fère's words. This was about trying to make a difference. "Is everything ready at the Manor?"

"Haven't you been to see them setting up?" said Aramis in surprise. "I thought you and Monsieur le Cunt were tight these days?"

Porthos cringed at hearing him called that, which was hypocritical seeing as it was his own personal insult for the man. "Not at all," he said. "I haven't set eyes on the bloke since I had to lug him up to bed after the cricket tournament."

But Aramis, by now, was distracted, busy taking photos of a high street that was heaving with life and flooded with candlelight. It was a stunning sight and, at a time of thanksgiving, Porthos was grateful for being given the chance of a fresh start here. He could cope with dull. Dull was one hell of an improvement on the first thirty years of his life.

After a quiet night at the Cocks--everyone wanting to be bright eyed for the next day's festivities--Porthos fell into bed and curled on his side, willing his hard on away. Tension was building at the idea of spending time at the Manor--underpaid, oversexed and over here--but he'd already wasted too many thoughts and far too much sperm on the Comte de la Fère and he purposefully ignored his erection.

Sometime later, he woke from a dreamstate and, hazy with arousal, he bucked against imaginary skin, coming in a flood over his empty sheets. Whimpering with embarrassment, he rolled away from the mess and buried his face in the pillow, wishing the world gone. Goddamnit, he needed a fuck. That would sort him out. Would it be so very wrong to ask Alice out under these circumstances?

It was still dark outside, just a faint crack of light splitting the sky, but Porthos had no intention of going back to sleep. Showering as quietly as possible, he dressed in a pair of jeans and a suitably autumnal, rust coloured sweater, and then stripped the bed and carried his washing down to the machine.

By nine o'clock, he'd cleaned the house, hung out clothes and sheets on the line, and was already making breakfast, when a very dishevelled man appeared in the doorway, hair awry and wearing nothing but some loose sleep pants.

"Are you feeling okay?" Aramis asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "This is disgustingly early. You’re not usually this much of a masochist."

"It's the big day, innit?" grinned Porthos. "I'm ready to report on the longest bean and the tastiest jam." Ready also to stop moping around like a lovelorn fool over some arsehole who wasn't worth giving the time of day. "Here, have some scrambled eggs."

"Cheers, dear." Aramis took the plate and sat at the dinette. "I wonder what's going to happen today. They used to start the fayre with a procession through the town. God knows what they'll do now that it's up at the Manor. These eggs are great," he said, waving his fork at Porthos.

"Tabasco," grinned Porthos. "Gives them a kick." He hunted through a load of papers he'd stacked in a pile on the dresser. "Here's an itinerary," he said, taking a quick look at the plan. "Apparently everyone meets up at the Manor at eleven thirty. There's the procession of the slain Harvest Man up the driveway into the field and then Winter Finding is officially opened by the Mayor at midday."

"Excellent," said Aramis, sticking his plate in the sink and pouring coffees. "I'll take a few photos of them marching and then we can have a sit down while they're all prancing around. I'll warn you now, it's very odd."

"That Harvest Man sounds a bit ominous," said Porthos, through a mouthful of toast. "They don't practice human sacrifice here, do they?"

"Not so far," grinned Aramis, sitting back down. "But there's always a first time. Who d'you reckon? New reporter man with strange, dark skin?"

Porthos thumped him from across the table. "How about the town bike with over the top facial hair." Aramis thumped him back, and Porthos snorted with laughter. "Our reptilian MP’s the best candidate, I reckon."

"Nope. Gotta be King Louis," declared Aramis. "Vive la Revolution!"

They finished their breakfast in high spirits and, once Aramis was showered and dressed, they piled into Porthos’ Golf and followed the motorcade of cars up to the Manor. The area set aside for parking was almost full when they got there and it was only half past ten.

“Bloody hell, these guys are keen,” said Porthos as they walked around to the field at the back.

“You don’t know the half of it,” smirked Aramis.

Porthos had to admit he was pretty shocked at the scene that greeted him. Expecting nothing more than a village fête type set up of a few stalls and a dais with a microphone, he was amazed to see a large stage and tents of every shape and size filling the field, all of them strung with berries and leaves, and looking as picturesque as Howerton High Street. Most confusing of all was the enormous bonfire, stacked neatly with sawn up deadwood and offcuts from the coppicing, in a cleared area over to one side.

“What the fuck! It’s not Guy Fawkes,” he said, though he could happily dig into a jacket potato roasted in the embers.

“Boys,” yelled Constance from the French doors. “Come and help us move some furniture to make room for the band tonight.”

Aramis rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "My first time inside le Manoir. Why am I always last to the party?" 

With that he was off, racing toward the house, but Porthos lagged behind, unsure whether he wanted to be here at all. Maybe he should have confessed how much he fancied de la Fère the same time Aramis had admitted his feelings for Anne. The problem was he was crap at spilling his guts and always had been, his past weighing heavy on his shoulders.

"Porthos," yelled Constance. "Get a move on, love. We haven't much time to get this done."

He had no choice--Constance was a hard taskmistress--and so, steeling himself, he walked in through the glazed doors, wondering if the _us_ included Olivier de la Fère.

Aramis was wandering around the room, examining every picture, every ornament, every out of time furnishing, with the same kind of wonder that Porthos had experienced on his first tour of the house. "This place is terrifically insane," he said in awe.

"It's a dank old museum," said d'Artagnan, who was clearly none too taken with it and for some reason Porthos felt defensive. It was somebody's home, for chrissake.

"Is le Comte going to help us common folks shift his stuff?" said Aramis.

"He's gone riding for the day," said Constance. "He told us to do whatever we liked with it."

“Actually, he told us he didn’t give a toss,” said d’Artagnan, an uncharacteristic frown appearing on his face.

Porthos tried to quell the sudden surge of disappointment. "Let's get this done," he said, picking up one end of a sofa as d'Artagnan took the other. At least the internal doors were wide enough to allow them to shift the furniture around easily. "Don't block off the study or the kitchen. He uses them a lot."

"The gallery would be perfect for storage," said Constance, opening up a pointlessly long room that was completely devoid of furnishing.

"You two know an awful lot," said d'Artagnan, a suspicious look on his face. "I thought this was the monster house that no one ever visited."

"Don't be so stupid," said Constance haughtily. "We had a cup of tea with Olivier and he showed us around. It's not exactly a mystery." She grabbed Porthos by the arm. "Come on, let's leave them to shift the rest of the furniture and you and I can work out which is the best area for the band to set up." As soon as they were out of earshot Constance had a moan. "D'Artagnan can be such a thoughtless shit at times."

"Not really," said Porthos with a shrug of his shoulders. "He's a bloke. Just tell him you fancy him and then you two can get on with being happy together."

"I suppose you're right," said Constance with a long drawn out sigh. "Dancing around each other like this is silly."

Porthos thought about de la Fère and wondered whether it was time to take his own advice. At very least it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a chat, clear the air and thank him for the cheque.

"Once we've moved everything out of here, you should get the band to set up in front of the doors," he said. "That way no one'll try and sneak through to the rest of the house."

"Good idea," said Constance, giving his hand a squeeze. “Thank you. I’m so glad you moved here.”

By eleven thirty they had everything, bar the PA system, prepared for the evening. There were chairs and side tables placed around the edges of the room, whilst enormous, geometric patterned rugs had been gathered from around the house to protect the Jacobean floor. The internal doors were closed, blocked off by an area that was set aside for the five piece jazz band, and the fireplaces were filled with strings of tiny led lights and fir cones: their only concession to decoration. The great hall simply didn't need it.

"It looks cool," said d'Artagnan, trying his best to get back into Constance's good books. 

Poor kid, thought Porthos. All he needed to do was ask the girl out.

"Come on, my friend," said Aramis, slipping an arm around Porthos’ shoulders. "It's time to introduce you to the ancient ways of Howerton."

Unsure quite what to expect, Porthos followed Aramis around to the front of the house, where a huge crowd of people had already gathered, children jumping up and down in anticipation. After a few minutes, there was the distant sound of drumming and then melodic pipes began to play above a drone.

"It's only the original families who take part in this," murmured Aramis. "You'll be amazed by how many there are."

The music grew louder by the second and Porthos shivered. It was strange, as otherworldly as the house itself, and for a moment it felt as if they were caught in the event horizon of a time slip.

The children at the front, first to catch sight of the procession, pointed and cheered and Porthos watched as the Fool appeared, dancing a jig and waving his sceptre, followed immediately by a column of masked men and women who carried the slain Harvest Man on a shoulder high hurdle of woven twigs. He’d been pretty accurate this morning; ominous was the only word to describe this. It may have been nothing more than a bundle of straw, but decapitated and dressed in bloody clothing, the symbolism was clear.

Immediately behind the Harvest Man skipped a veiled virgin, far too tall to be female, carrying a wheat sheaf baby in a christening gown, and trailing after her came dozens of masked dancers and musicians.

"It's the old and the new," explained Aramis, camera permanently attached to his face as the procession marched past them. "At sundown they fire up the bonfire to burn the Harvest Man. They then plant the seeds from the Harvest Child and bless the ground with cider."

"Fucking creepy," whispered Porthos, covering his mouth with a hand to be sure he was not overheard. He had no intention of ending the night as a sacrificial lamb.

"Yet quite spectacular." Aramis grinned. "I'm sure I was as shell shocked as you my first year, but I'm used to it now."

Once the procession was over, the day became a little more ordinary. The Mummers were fantastic, putting on four different plays, to the delight of the audience, with the medieval musicians performing sets in between. 

Porthos spent hours sampling cakes and testing jams, as well as talking to the ecstatic medal winners. He'd have a ton of interviews to sift through afterwards, but every moment was golden. His favourite, if he had to pick just one, was seeing the Right Honourable Richelieu being harassed by the Fool.

"Cut us a caper, your Ugliness," the Jester teased, dancing around him as the onlookers laughed. Richelieu could do nothing but smile benevolently, his eyes like cold steel.

When he wasn't taking photos, Aramis was spending most of his time at the cider tasting tent. Anything to avoid seeing Anne paraded around on Louis’ arm, he’d informed Porthos, who was, by now, wishing he hadn’t volunteered to drive. A little dutch courage might be just the push he needed to talk to de la Fère, who was never far from his thoughts since he’d made up his mind to clear the air between them, and he kept a close watch on the yard, hoping to see him arrive home.

As the Winter Finding drew to a close, prizes were awarded to the competition winners and, after that, there were just the tedious speeches from Richelieu and the Mayor to sleep through. A loud whinnying, during the inevitable presentation of bouquets, alerted Porthos to the Comte’s return, and he wandered casually over to the stables, watching from the doorway as de la Fère brushed down his horse, talking to him in a gentle voice and feeding him the occasional Polo mint.

“Had a good ride?” asked Porthos, wishing he’d chosen a different turn of phrase: one that was less likely to conjure up unwanted imagery.

De la Fère was startled, snatching up his rucksack from the corner of the loose box and shutting the stall door. He visibly relaxed when he saw it was Porthos. “Yes, I did, thank you,” he said amiably.

“Jumpy much,” laughed Porthos. “I hope you’re not planning on getting pissed again tonight, because I can think of better ways to enjoy myself than sticking your head under a tap.”

“No.” For the first time in Porthos’ memory the man grinned at him, full of life and flushed from his day in the fresh air. “I have no sorrows to drown right now. In fact I had a thoroughly enjoyable day of tit for tat.”

Porthos had no idea what he was talking about, but anything that made that made him so unusually happy had to be a good thing. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” the man continued. “I’m hot and sweaty and I need to jump in the bath before my house is invaded by Constance and her party goers.”

“I don’t think you’ll have long,” warned Porthos, trying not to think of him lying naked in that huge tub. “They’ll be back to light the bonfire before dusk.”

“Then I must get a move on. Keep your fingers crossed that the boiler's working.” As he was passing by, de la Fère brushed his palm over Porthos’ bare forearm, lingering there for a moment. “Thank you for looking after me.”

A second later he was gone, unlocking the kitchen door then bounding into the house, and all Porthos was left with was the sound of the bolts sliding home and the brief, physical memory of that touch.

“You’ve got it bad, son,” he said to himself, shaking his head in disbelief that he could find such a small gesture so very erotic.

The horse whinnied as if he were laughing at him, and Porthos patted him on the neck then picked up a stray Polo from the floor and fed it to him. “If only you could talk to me, Roger,” he said. “The things you’d be able to tell me about your lord and master.”


	9. Chapter 9

“So, what did you think of your first Winter Finding?” asked Aramis as they chilled out in the cottage, having a cup of tea and some of the lavender shortbread that Porthos had been given by the WI, whilst they waited for the next round of madness to begin.

“It was okay. Better than I expected,” said Porthos, eyeing his biscuit suspiciously, unsure of the perfumed flavour. He was aware that he’d been quiet since they got home, but had been busy beating himself up. How the hell could he have forgotten to thank de la Fère for the cheque he’d sent to cover the cost of the car repairs? What a rude bastard he must seem.

“We’ll be rushed off our feet for the next couple of weeks,” said Aramis. “We always issue a special tribute paper, as well as the normal edition, so be prepared because Treville’ll be like a bear with a sore head. We sell three times as many copies as we do at any other time of the year so, as far as he’s concerned, it has to be perfect.”

“Sounds a bit knackering,” said Porthos. 

“It is,” agreed Aramis. “Which is why we need to party our cocks off tonight. The plan is to meet everyone at the pub for some food and, from there, we’ll be cabbing it up to the Manor.”

“Good idea,” said Porthos, but in actuality he wasn’t so sure. If he arrived _with_ Alice then he was worried it would imply that they’d be spending the evening together, which wouldn’t be fair when he had very different intentions. His thoughts drifted; it was ridiculous how much impact one full blown smile and an innocent touch could have. He’d never felt closer to Olivier. How would that name sound tripping off his tongue if they ever made it as far as bed?

“I get the bathroom first,” said Aramis, seeing Porthos make a move and then running full pelt for the stairs.

“Was only taking my cup out,” smirked Porthos. He was too het up to shower right now, all fired up and ready for action. Hopefully the match on the telly would distract him for a while and calm his hyperactive libido.

He'd barely taken in the score, let alone how the game was progressing, when he was disturbed by a loud yell. 

“Oi, thick ears! I told you the bathroom was all yours at least ten minutes ago.”

It was Aramis' voice all right, but Porthos would have been hard pushed to pick his best friend out of an identity parade.

“So? How do I look?”

“Very slick, mate,” said Porthos, taking in the pinstripe zoot suit, red shirt and black tie. Spivvy indeed, he looked like something straight out of an old Cuban dance club.

“No way was I going to cut my hair or shave my beard and tache off, so this was the only thing I could think of,” said Aramis, attaching a long chain to his belt loops. “Constance was an angel helping me with it.” He took off his fedora then chucked himself into the armchair and stared at the telly. “Good match?”

“Man Utd, QPR. Boring as shit,” said Porthos. “I’ll go and get changed.”

Climbing the stairs, neatly ducking every protruding beam, he opened the eaves cupboard and took out his uniform, laying it on the bed and wondering if he was brave enough to wear it. He’d be more comfortable in his own clothes, but there was something exciting about the idea of this particular fancy dress and, anyway, he couldn’t let Constance down after she’d gone to so much expense.

Half an hour later, there was a yell from downstairs. “Porthos, what the fuck are you doing up there? Having a wank?”

It was, in fact, one of the few occasions Porthos _hadn’t_ been sorting himself out recently and, feeling quite aggrieved, he tucked his side cap into the shoulder strap of his jacket and checked his reflection in the mirror one final time. The only thing he was guilty of was taking too much trouble over his appearance, shaving off every stray hair from cock and balls, and trimming all other regions to perfection. 

“Alright, mate. I’m almost ready,” he yelled back. Ready indeed. Ready for anything.

The pub was heaving by the time they eventually arrived . Porthos was too edgy to eat a proper meal and he sat on a bar stool, leaning over to pick a few chips off Aramis’ plate every now and then, checking the clock continually. He was eager to get to the Manor. Anxious to make his apologies to de la Fère and see how the evening played out.

“Porthos, you look brilliant,” said Alice, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek.

“So do you,” said Porthos. She was wearing a pretty navy and white tea dress with her hair pinned up in perfect forties style. Buying them both a drink, he felt awkward at not having a harvest corsage for her, seeing as so many of the other girls were wearing them.

Constance and d’Artagnan were nowhere to be seen and Porthos understood why when the minicab turned into the tree lined driveway of the Manor, now illuminated by strings of lights which were beginning to twinkle in the dusk. The kids had been working hard putting the final touches in place.

The bonfire was surrounded by a crowd of people, Harvest Man in pride of place on a stake at the centre of pyre, but Porthos was far more interested in seeing the house in all its tarted up glory. 

The great hall was a sight to behold. The hundreds of tealights may have been artificial, but, placed carefully, they emitted a subtle flickering light, and with the jazz quintet playing Ink Spots numbers at the far end of the room, it was an extraordinary scene.

“This is wonderful,” said Alice, running over to Constance to give her a hug. “You should do this for a living.”

“I wish I could,” said Constance. “Can you imagine how much fun it would be to organise parties twenty-four seven?”

Porthos could honestly imagine nothing worse, and, leaving the girls to natter, he went back outside, watching from a distance as the ritual began and someone--Remi perhaps?--approached the bonfire with a blazing torch.

If he returned to the party he’d only end up dancing with Alice, which would mean leading her on even more. Instead, he wandered around to the side of the Manor, testing the kitchen door and finding, to his surprise, that it was open. After a moment's indecision, he entered and bolted it behind him.

He knew instinctively where the Comte would be hiding and, before nerves got the better of him, he opened the door and walked into the study. 

The room was far from the scene of devastation it had been last time and was infinitely warm and inviting. Lit by wall lights, with the embers of a fire burning in the hearth, it had that old library smell from the rows of books that lined the walls.

De la Fère was sitting at his desk, and on hearing someone enter he closed his laptop quickly. Looking over his shoulder, he smiled at Porthos and, after locking the computer away in a drawer, stood up to greet him.

“Hello,” he said. “I hoped I'd see you tonight. Were you expecting to find me passed out on the floor by now?”

“Not at all,” said Porthos, hands shoved awkwardly in pockets. “Actually I wanted to thank you for the money. I totally forgot to mention it earlier.”

“My pleasure,” said de la Fère with another of those rare smiles. “I was being more of an arse than usual that day. Not the best of welcomes to Howerton I should imagine.”

“I _was_ half tempted to drive straight back to London,” admitted Porthos.

“Then I apologise belatedly for my manners.” said the man, getting up and walking over to the sideboard. “How about a drink to make up for it?” Pouring a finger of scotch into a tumbler, he passed it to Porthos and cast an appraising eye over him. “You look perfect for the occasion, by the way.”

“Thank you,” said Porthos, wondering why the Comte de la Fère was the only person on earth with the ability to turn him into a blushing fool.

“I feel underdressed beside you.” When he wasn’t in riding clothes the guy lived in scruffy cords and cardigans and tonight was no exception. He was obviously cold blooded. “How’s the party going?” he asked.

Soft jazz was diffusing through the walls and, with a tingle of scotch in his belly, Porthos was filled with an inner warmth. “To tell you the truth, I left before it got going,” he admitted. “They were about to incinerate the Harvest Man when I came to see you.”

“Strange fuckers,” said de la Fère and it was so out of character that Porthos spluttered with laughter. “Well, you can hardly deny it,” the man added.

Side by side they stood at the window, watching the funeral pyre burn and as a hand skated down his back and came to rest at the base of his spine, Porthos shivered with desire and placed his tumbler on the sill.

“I’m not misreading this, am I?” said de la Fère and Porthos was surprised because he'd never heard him sound unsure of himself before. Abrasive and cold, at times kindhearted and even perhaps sweet, but never uncertain.

“No. No, you're not.” Porthos' voice was nothing more than a rumble, and caught up in the romance of the moment, distant jazz music and soft firelight emboldening him, he took hold of de la Fère’s hand and slid an arm around his back. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t really,” said the man and yet he seemed willing to try.

“The Comte de la Fère, unable to dance,” smiled Porthos. “You telling me you don’t possess all the social skills?”

“Not a single one, I’m afraid.”

“Me either.” Porthos drew him closer and they moved together in time with the music. 

As darkness fell and the sounds of the party grew more raucous, Porthos leaned in for a kiss that was little more than a brush of bearded mouths. Parting for a moment, they stared at one another rapt and Porthos, who had never been in love before, wondered if this was what he was feeling. When the kissing began again--a press of lips, a hint of tongue--he knew that, love or otherwise, the icy heat of expensive whisky was a flavour he'd never forget.

The music drifted forward in time to Glenn Miller, faster now with more of a rhythm to it, and, as their bodies melded together, the slow swaying switched up a gear into a definite pattern.

"You said you didn't dance," smiled Porthos. "You lied."

"So did you," said de la Fère with a grin so full of fun that Porthos was loathed to kiss it from his face. He did anyway.

It was the safest Porthos had ever felt, hidden away in this secret place, dancing, drinking, laughing. Most exciting of all were those languid, indecent kisses, teasing touches of tongue leading to gentle exploration, the heat between them building incrementally until mouths and bodies locked together, and they climbed each other, clawed at one another, rough and fierce.

How many hours had they spent in this room? Was it days? Shaking with arousal, dishevelled and dizzy, Porthos was shoved up against the bookcase, bucking helplessly, hot, hard, so very desperate. "We should-"

The words were kissed away. "Should what?"

"We should go to bed." Porthos was slurring his words, drunk on sex rather than scotch. "Christ, I need you to fuck me."

His arms were pinned, strong rider’s hands securing his wrists, and as that mouth opened him up, licking into him, sucking kisses across his jawline and down his neck, he moaned in utter pleasure, "Please, Olivier." Breathing in citrus and musk, leather and dust from the books, he arched his spine and ground himself shamelessly against that hard cock. "Please."

A hand curled around the back of his neck and the kisses quietened down to gentle brushes of lips, and then to nothing and then, all of a sudden, Porthos' arms were devastatingly empty. "I’ll top," he said in a panic. "I often do, so-"

"It's not that," murmured de la Fère, leaning in close as if all his strength had been sapped, and, as he did so, Porthos could see that bloody shadow had returned to his face. "This simply can't happen. I’m sorry. I made a mistake."

"Why, for fuck's sake?" demanded Porthos, his hands clamping down onto the man's shoulders as he pushed him away to take in eyes that were dark with arousal, lips that were swollen from kissing. "You want me." He slid a hand downwards and de la Fère thrust helpless against him. "And I want you,” he said, taking hold of a hand as if they were still dancing. He pressed it tight against his own cock, moving it over the coarse material until they were rubbing him off together and, inching closer again, they kissed, taking great mouthfuls of each other and gasping for more until de la Fère, once again, backed away.

“Don’t do this, Olivier,” said Porthos. "Please."

Taking no chances this time, de la Fère escaped to the other side of the room, hands splayed on his desk as he stared out of the window at the dying remains of the bonfire. "If things were different," he said bleakly.

“Things can be any way you want them to be.” Porthos wasn’t ready to give in, and narrowing the distance between them, he draped himself over the man’s back, cock lodged tight against the curve of his arse. Licking a path of kisses down his neck, he sucked a single possessive bruise onto pale skin.

De la Fère turned in Porthos’ arms, held his face in his hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. “If _I_ were different,” he said. “Now please go. Go back to your fancy dress party. Go play with your friends and leave me alone.”

Porthos lost his temper. “If that’s what you want,” he growled. "You had your fucking chance and you’ve blown it. As far as I'm concerned, you can sit alone in this ruin, drinking your life away until that swollen liver liquefies and rots inside you.”

De la Fère stared at him, then reached for the bottle and poured himself an inch more whisky.

“Pathetic,” snarled Porthos. “Why bother with half measures? Get it over and done with.” Grabbing the bottle, he filled the glass to the brim then slammed it down on the desk and walked out.

He should go back to the party, get pissed from the contraband booze that had been smuggled in and pretend he was having fun. He should dance the night away with Alice then take her home and fuck her. He liked her and she liked him, so where was the harm in that? Alice was a safe option; she was pretty and kind, but tonight she would just be somewhere to stick his cock and, however angry he was, Porthos wasn’t that much of a pig.

Instead, he found himself walking a winding path home, taking the odd shortcut across the fields when he could identify one, but mostly sticking to the unlit lanes.

A car pulled alongside him. “Need a lift?” said Sergeant Rochefort through the open window.

“Wouldn’t say no,” said Porthos. “Thanks.” He climbed in the passenger side and closed the door. It was a monumental moment: the first time he’d ever been in the front of a police car.

“Had a few too many?” asked Rochefort.

“No, just a whisky or two,” said Porthos. “I decided to come home early, that’s all.”

“It can be a bit overwhelming,” agreed Rochefort. “At my first Winter Finding I was convinced they were all a bunch of murderers and I had to resist the urge to arrest everyone. Now I know it’s just a bit of fun.”

Not fun from where he was standing, thought Porthos with a rueful smile as they pulled up outside the cottage. “Thanks, mate,” he said as he climbed out. “Hope you don’t have too many stragglers to ferry home.”

“Me either.” Rochefort grinned. “Goodnight, Porthos.”

It was comforting that the policeman only knew him by name because they often had a game of darts together in the pub. Opening the door of the cottage, Porthos realised he desperately needed a piss and, charging upstairs to the landing, he came to a sudden standstill.

Aramis’ bedroom door was wide open. He was naked on the bed, his hands running possessively over a bare back, murmuring Romance endearments as he fucked his lover on all fours with a liquid roll of the hips.

Normally this wouldn’t be a game changer. Porthos had heard Aramis having sex enough times. Jesus Christ, he was a man; he’d gone so far as to picture him when he was doing it, but he never expected to see Aramis fucking d’Artagnan.

“You pair of bastards,” he said, pissed off at the whole of humankind, and slamming into the bathroom he peed noisily into the toilet bowl, grateful, when he emerged, to find that the door of the master bedroom was now shut.

Emotionally and physically drained, Porthos put clean sheets on his bed and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, surprised, when he woke up, to find that it was gone ten. Usually he loved Sundays, but today he’d rather be at work than spend the day moping about at home with that disastrous night looping perpetually in his head. Still, there was no point in wasting time; he may as well make a head start on the many articles he had to write.

Dressed in his most comfortable clothes, he made himself a coffee and then sat at the dinette, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sunshine as it streamed in through the windows. Opening his laptop, he transcribed the first set of soundbites and interviews into text, then slowly, piece by piece, began to mould them into a cover story. He was so engrossed in what he was doing that it took him a while to realise he was no longer alone.

“Oh, you do know I exist then,” said Aramis with a roll of his eyes when Porthos removed his earbuds. “Funny, I never took you to be a homophobe.”

More pissed off than ever, Porthos looked at him in disgust. “Don’t be a fucking twat,” he said, putting the phones back in and carrying on with his work.

A while later, Aramis pushed a fresh mug of coffee across the table and, when Porthos looked up, he mouthed a clearly enunciated, "sorry," at him.

Sighing, Porthos took out his earbuds for a second time. He was getting somewhere, painting a layered picture of the Winter Finding, and he didn’t like being interrupted in mid flow. “What?” he snapped.

“You’re clearly pissed off,” said Aramis. “And if it’s not about me being bisexual, then I’d like to know what I’ve done wrong.”

“I’m pissed off with everyone,” said Porthos. “You especially because you called me a bigot without even bothering to speak to me first.” Aramis had the good grace to look ashamed. “And also because you don’t give a crap about people’s feelings. You’re a selfish dickhead.”

“Because I slept with d’Artagnan?” said Aramis, a puzzled look on his face.

“Because you sleep with anyone, _everyone_ , and you don’t give a damn about the consequences.” Porthos scrubbed a hand across his face. “Look, mate, I’m sorry I had a go at you last night, but it’s best to leave me alone to brood today.”

“Not until you explain what you meant by that,” said Aramis.

Porthos sighed again and shut his laptop. “D’Artagnan likes Constance. You’re supposed to be in love with Anne. Now the two of you are fucking each other’s brains out. I don’t get it.”

“D’Artagnan’s gay. He fancies M le Comte who barely even knows he exists. I love Anne, but she’s married. The kid and I hooked up for some no strings sex. Where’s the problem in that?”

Porthos frowned. D'Artagnan liked de la Fère? He may have misread part of the situation, but that still didn’t let them off the hook. “What about Constance? She’s your friend and she’s crazy about d’Artagnan.”

“But he’s _gay_ ,” repeated Aramis, with a shrug. “What’s he supposed to do?”

“He could try telling her,” said Porthos grumpily.

“How about you try telling Alice you’re not interested in her?” said Aramis, raising his eyebrows.

Porthos didn’t enjoy having his own argument turned against him. “I like Alice. I might want to go out with her,” he said, feeling the unhappiness well up inside him. “Look," he confessed, his words escaping in a sudden outpouring of misery. "I thought there could be someone else, but believe me, after last night, that ain’t happening.”

Aramis, the gossipmonger, leaned in close. “My God, you kept that close to your chest. How did I not notice? Who is it?”

“It’s no one,” snapped Porthos. “I told you it’s a washout.” He was stupidly raw, and the last thing he wanted to do was talk about it to anyone. Certainly not someone who just five minutes ago had accused him of being homophobic.

“It can’t be Constance,” said Aramis. “And Fleur’s definitely not into guys. It must be Flea. You’re always hanging around with her.”

Flea was one of life’s warriors. She helped Porthos to organise the demonstrations and she was a good friend. “It’s not Flea,” he said, furious that this had been turned into a guessing game. “Bugger off and find someone to fuck.” 

“ _Porthos_.”

“Leave it,” said Porthos quietly. “It hurts.”

“You really loved her,” said Aramis, every speck of intrigue replaced by sympathy. “I’m sorry it didn't work out, my friend.”

Porthos kept his head down and put his earbuds back in, despite the fact that all the transcribing was done for now. If this was love then it was a fucking joke.


	10. Chapter 10

Being called into the boss’ office only ever meant one thing and Porthos steeled himself, wondering what the hell he'd done wrong this time.

Treville looked stern, hands steepled in front of him, then a miracle happened and he smiled. "You've done a fantastic job on these," he said, the most recent editions of the paper laid out on the desk. "In fact you've done such a great job since you've been here, I'm giving you a pay rise."

Porthos was speechless. Treville was down to earth; he didn't do niceties or platitudes. "Thank you," he mumbled.

"You've earned it," said Treville, standing up and patting him on the back. "Now take the rest of the day off and have some fun. All I ever see you do is work, young man."

"Thank you," said Porthos again, leaving the inner sanctum and shutting the door behind him, wondering what the fuck to do with himself for the afternoon. The hectic nature of the past month was the only thing that had kept him sane after the embarrassment of the party.

"Did he let the cat out of the bag?" smirked Aramis, who had his feet up on the desk and was reading the latest gossip rag.

"He gave me the day off and a raise," said Porthos, astonished by events.

"Fucking hell, he must love you," said Aramis. "I'm still waiting for mine." Standing up, he wrapped an arm around Porthos' shoulders. "We need to celebrate. D'Artagnan and I are going up to London tonight to a club. I don't know if it'll be your scene, but come with us and see." 

There wasn't any kind of scene that hadn't been Porthos' in the past. He desperately wanted his bad old days to be behind him, but it still pissed him off when everyone assumed he was so sweet and innocent. "Don't think so, mate, thanks all the same,” he said. “I don't fancy playing gooseberry."

Aramis sighed. "D'Artagnan and I are just friends, Porthos. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"But you'll probably end up screwing each other in the railway arches," grinned Porthos. "And what am I supposed to do then? Cheer you on."

"Join in?" suggested Aramis with a wicked smile and Porthos laughed.

"My days of public sex in uncomfortable places are over." He wondered if it was a genuine invitation--you could never be certain with Aramis--but it was one Porthos would never even consider. D'Artagnan and Aramis were both seriously attractive blokes, but they were his buddies and, more to the point, they weren't what he wanted.

"You're no fun at all," pouted Aramis, looking at his watch very deliberately. "It's lunchtime, so let's go across the road and spend your newfound wealth."

"You're on," said Porthos, peeling back Aramis' cuff to examine the flash new Rolex that was strapped to his wrist. "Looks like you're the one who's in the money."

"Anne gave it me as a thank you," said Aramis smugly.

"For services rendered?" Porthos grinned and folded his arms.

"For finishing the portrait, you cheeky git," said Aramis. "I swear to you I've never laid an inappropriate finger on her... yet."

"Will you two fuck off now and jabber about your love lives somewhere I can't hear you," yelled Treville, through the closed door, and Aramis and Porthos pulled matching worried faces at each other. They had no idea the office was so badly soundproofed. That was a long overdue lesson.

Bundling up against the weather with thick jackets and warm scarves, they scurried across the road to the Cocks. The short cold snap predicted by the Met Office was lasting a lot longer than expected and even their tiny cottage needed central heating and log fires on all the time. Draughts whistled in through every gap in the floorboards--the ancient windows stood no chance of keeping the northeasterly out--and Porthos was no longer sure about the romance of winter in the countryside. 

It was a Friday lunchtime and the pub was busy enough to be lively, but thankfully not packed to the rafters. A fire was blazing in the hearth, and Porthos hung up his outdoor clothes on the hatstand, feeling the usual rush of love for the place. It was a real local. _His_ local.

“Over here,” yelled Constance, who was sitting next to d’Artagnan at their usual table by the garden door, ready to ‘borrow’ cigarettes off any passing sucker.

“I’ll get them in,” Porthos yelled back and, with a thumbs up to Remi, went up to the bar, watching as he lined up three pint glasses and added a splash of tonic to a vodka.

Carrying the drinks over on a tray, Porthos was treated to a round of applause from his friends and, feeling quite full of himself, he nodded his appreciation.

“A raise after five months is pretty impressive,” said d’Artagnan.

“From Treville it’s a miracle,” said Aramis. “Our Porthos will be on his way to Fleet Street before you know it.”

“Not likely,” said Porthos, thinking back to de la Fere’s words. He wanted to make a difference before he moved on. “I reckon it’s time to put in an appeal to the planning committee,” he continued. “But I’m going to need your support, because I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Of course we’ll help,” said Constance. “Won’t we, d’Artagnan?” And the way she covered his hand with hers and smiled at him so hopefully made Porthos feel a bit sick. Why couldn’t the kid just tell her the truth?

“I would, but I’ve got a tour coming up,” said d’Artagnan. “We’re off to Holland and Belgium next week.”

“Who needs you?” said Aramis, poking his tongue out and, if you knew what to look for, the answering smirk on d’Artagnan’s face was loaded with filthy intent.

Porthos was hit by a wave of depression and lapsed into a long period of silence. Watching Aramis and d’Artagnan flirt with each other made him miss that stupid bastard up at the Manor more than ever. He hadn’t seen de la Fère in town for over a week and, even then, it was only the back of his head.

“Put a smile on that handsome face,” said Constance, squeezing his cheek between finger and thumb. “We’re supposed to be celebrating.”

“I hate having nothing to do,” said Porthos gloomily.

“I’ve got to go back to the shop soon,” said Constance, “but you could come with me and we’ll start work on the appeal.”

“That sounds like an idea,” said Porthos, breaking into a half-hearted grin.

Feeling more cheerful now, he joined in with some of the chatter, mostly aimless local gossip, and, once he’d finished his pint of Gobblers, he and Constance stood up to go.

“Bye, Aramis. Bye d’Art,” said Constance, leaning forward to peck d’Artagnan on the lips.

“Do I look like an arrow?” said the kid with an irritated shake of his head. 

“Sorry,” laughed Constance. “Bye, _Charles_.”

“I’ll be leaving at four if you change your mind about tonight,” said Aramis to Porthos.

“Thanks, mate, but I’m happy enough in Howerton,” said Porthos. He’d had his fill of bright lights and big cities for now.

It was icier than ever outside and he and Constance made a run for it, laughing as they raced each other to be first inside the shop and then barricading themselves behind the door to escape the cold.

“Bloody hell, that’s nippy,” said Constance. “The radiators are already on, but I’ll have to use the heater too. All my profits will go on oil if this keeps up.” She disappeared into the back room and soon there was the comforting sound of a kettle beginning to boil. “Here, carry this through for me, love.”

Porthos picked up the convector heater, plugging it into a socket under the counter and, after a minute or two, his feet began to thaw.

“I can’t believe it’s only just November,” he said as he took the mug of tea gratefully and wrapped his hands around it for extra warmth. “I’m not used to these temperatures.”

“Nor am I,” said Constance. “And I’m from the north.” She looked at Porthos inquisitively. “Where’s Aramis going tonight?”

Porthos looked at her and drew in a sustaining breath. “He and d’Artagnan are off clubbing in London.”

“Oh.” Constance chewed at her lip. “D’Artagnan told me he was busy, but he said he was out with the team.”

“Well, he’s not,” said Porthos firmly. 

“Those two seem to be spending a lot of time together,” said Constance, doodling aimlessly on a notepad in front of her.

"Yes, they do." Christ, it was awful watching the penny slowly teeter and then drop and Porthos felt like shit. “D’Artagnan’s gay,” he said bluntly. “I’m sure he didn’t set out to hurt you, but he should have told you the truth a long time ago.”

Constance looked at him with huge, wet eyes. “And he and Aramis?” 

“Are banging each other, yep,” said Porthos. “Fuck buddies apparently.”

“Bloody hell,” said Constance with a frown. “Now that makes me really pissed off. It wouldn’t be so bad if they’d fallen madly in love, but just to have a bunk up for the heck of it. Bastards.”

Once again, Porthos admired her indomitable spirit. “That’s what I called them when I found them at it after Winter Finding.”

“You didn’t!” Constance heaved in a shuddery breath and wiped a hand across her face.

“I did. Next morning Aramis confessed that it was just a bit of fun to console themselves because they were both suffering from dual cases of unrequited love. Silly twats.”

Constance reached under the counter for a bottle and added a splash of whisky to their mugs. “God, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Everyone knows Aramis is infatuated with Anne Bourbon, but d’Artagnan- Oh my god!” She pressed a palm to her mouth. “He fancies the Comte. No wonder he was so miserable the day of Winter Finding. Olivier ignored him completely.”

“Hole in one,” said Porthos. “But keep it quiet though, eh? They might be wankers, but they’re still our friends, and I have a feeling d’Artagnan probably suffered a huge amount of abuse when he was a kid.”

“I promise I won’t say a word,” said Constance. “It’s not as if he ever even kissed me. It was all in my own stupid head. And I was right; you are a lovely man to be so concerned about him.”

Not right about the Comte de la Fère though, thought Porthos, because he wasn't lovely in the slightest. He pulled himself up by his bootstraps, determined not to spend the entire day dwelling on his miserable failure of a love life. D'Artagnan didn't know what a lucky escape he'd had.

Borrowing Constance's laptop, Porthos searched the internet for information on appeals to planning consent and the council website made for a depressing afternoon’s reading. As did the Local Government Ombudsman.

“I think this whole campaign has been a waste of time,” he said glumly, after an hour or so of research. “If planning consent has been granted then it’s a matter of law and it can’t be undone. Even if we think the process hasn’t been carried out correctly then we still can only ask for compensation.”

“Bollocks,” said Constance. “We’re not giving in that easily. Think of all the support you’ve got locally.”

“But we can’t do anything about the planning permission without a judicial review.”

“Then we do that,” said Constance. “It can’t be too difficult.”

“You _are_ kidding?” Porthos looked at her incredulously. “We’d need tens of thousands of pounds to even start that kind of process, plus there’s the fact that Treville already told me Bourbon followed the correct procedures.”

“I don’t care,” said Constance in defiant mood. “I’m not giving up. It’s our bloody recreation ground and no one’s going to build a granny commune there.”

“Granny commune?” Porthos snorted with laughter. “Are you drunk, woman?”

“Little bit,” grinned Constance, heading out back to refill their mugs from the pot. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“The problem is I have no idea where to start,” said Porthos.

“I do,” said Constance. “The Manor. Olivier was the one who told you how to begin your campaign. He knows what he’s talking about. He’s a clever man.”

Porthos knew she was right, but it didn’t make the idea any easier to bear. Going cap in hand to the Comte was the very last thing he wanted to do, although at least then he’d be able to see him again and make sure he was okay.

“I suppose it’s worth a go,” he said warily. “But he’ll probably send us packing.”

Constance smiled. “He might try, but he won’t succeed. He’s never defeated me yet. I’ll get Fleur to look after the shop tomorrow and we’ll go first thing before he’s had time to hit the bottle and get grumpy.”

Porthos was lost in a sudden flood of memories of his last time up at the Manor, shoved helpless against the bookshelves, a thigh rubbing against his cock, mouth worrying at his throat until he was gasping.

“...can help me sort out some stock before closing.”

“What?” said Porthos, coming down to earth with a bump.

“You’re a proper day dreamer. I said help me sort through the new stock then we’ll close up early and go back to your cottage for takeaway and films.”

“And beer?” said Porthos hopefully.

“Of course beer,” said Constance. “Who needs gay clubs when you could have a Friday night like ours.”


	11. Chapter 11

Porthos was a bag of nerves when he woke up. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, still tired after being disturbed by Aramis and d’Artagnan, who had crawled in sometime after four. The interesting noises that followed had made him pull the duvet over his head, as if he were afraid of the monster under the bed rather than the beast with two backs in the master bedroom.

It was another bitterly cold morning, frost crystals sticking to the ancient glass until it sparkled like diamonds in the sunshine. The heating wasn’t making a dent in the temperature and it was almost a relief to have those ten seconds of boiling water rain down on him from the shower head. The only shame was it had to be followed up by a blast of icy droplets.

He tried hard not to dress to impress, but couldn’t help taking a little extra time over his appearance, making sure his beard was perfectly trimmed and that he was wearing his most form fitting sweater, just on the off chance they got invited in.

Constance was picking him up at ten and he had hoped d’Artagnan would be well clear of the cottage by then, but it wasn’t looking likely. Still, it wasn’t his problem. Nope, his problem was six foot tall with a schizophrenic personality and a mouth that knew precisely how to drive him to distraction.

Thankfully, there were still no sounds from upstairs when Constance beeped to say that she was outside. Swilling down the remains of his coffee, Porthos put on a jacket and grabbed his keys from the table, slamming the front door deliberately hard as he left the cottage. Why should they have the luxury of an undisturbed lie in when he was up and about?

“You said you were picking me in _your_ car, not borrowing Noddy’s for the day,” he said as he squeezed himself into the passenger seat of the old Renault Four.

“Don’t listen to him, my sweet,” cried Constance, patting the steering wheel. “I’ve had Dolly since I passed my test.”

“Doesn’t make the thing any bigger,” grumbled Porthos. “I’ve only just unfolded myself after getting out of the shower. I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known.”

“It’s your fault for being a giant.” Constance smiled merrily at him. “Us normal sized people fit in her fine.”

As they drove away, Porthos caught sight of an inquisitive face peering out of the bedroom window and grinned. Aramis’ nose for gossip was unsurpassed.

Planning on being casual to the point of icy, Porthos was unprepared for the sight that greeted them as they rolled up to the Manor. All ideas of coolness flew out of the window when he saw the Comte, perched at the top of a precarious looking wooden ladder, fifty feet above the flagstones.

Before Constance had even pulled the handbrake, Porthos had leapt out of the car and put his foot on the base, hanging on tight to stop it moving. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, you moron?"

"Wait a sec," shouted de la Fère. "I'll come down."

Porthos watched every rung like a hawk, readying himself to catch the fool when he inevitably fell. Habitual drunks and high places were an unhealthy combination.

Finally, the harrowing descent was over and, resisting the urge to grab hold of the man and hug him until he squeaked, Porthos instead repeated his earlier question: "Well? What were you doing up there?"

"Seeing how hard it would be to patch up the roof." De la Fère frowned. "Impossible, is the answer."

"Idiot," said Porthos. "You should have called someone before going up there."

"Who?" De la Fère looked at him and quirked an eyebrow.

"Any of us, you stupid man," said Constance. "You’re shaking; you must be frozen. Get inside and warm up."

"I assume you didn't just come here to rescue me," said de la Fère.

"No, we didn't," said Constance. "We need your help, but we'll talk about that later when we're not all stood about getting hypothermia."

There was something different about the man today, thought Porthos as they followed him inside. He was quieter, less abrasive for some reason, and even the house felt distinctly odd. The kitchen was unusually tidy and warm from the range, more welcoming than before.

"So, how can I help you?" said de la Fère, putting the kettle on to boil.

“It’s that bloody recreation ground again,” said Constance. “We’re trying to appeal the decision, but Porthos reckons there’s no way to stop Bourbon from building his retirement village. We wondered if you’d have any ideas.”

“I might,” said de la Fère, making the tea and handing it around. He’d remembered that Porthos had sugar. “I need a distraction and it beats fixing the roof. Come through to the study, though I warn you it’s cold.”

“I’ll be there in a second,” said Constance, waving her phone at them. “I’ve got a quick call I need to make.”

Putting his mug on the study mantlepiece, de la Fère knelt to light the fire. “It’s a primitive existence here, I’m afraid. The heating’s buggered and if there’s heavy snow or storms I’m pretty sure I won’t have a roof left to mend.”

“Here’s to good weather,” said Porthos, watching as the flames began to lick around the edges of the logs.

The Comte stood up and raised his mug in a silent toast. “So, what’s the problem with this appeal then?”

“As far as I can make out, with planning consent already granted, it’s been written into law and unless I can think of a case to put forward for a judicial review then the battle is over. ”

“If anyone can convince a judge it would be you,” said de la Fère, unlocking his desk drawer and taking out his laptop. “You’re the master of the persuasive argument.”

Porthos was baffled. “Huh?” he said in a much less erudite fashion than he would have hoped for under the circumstances.

“Your closing statement, last time we met, was enough to make me stop drinking,” de la Fère said quietly. “I downed that bottle of scotch and lay awake for the whole night, feeling my rotting liver liquefying in my body. An excellent use of imagery, by the way. It’s easy to tell you’re a writer by profession.”

“Really?” said Porthos, feeling proud, embarrassed and overjoyed, all at the same time. “It’s amazing that you’ve done that by yourself. Well done.” He was incredibly proud of the man; going cold turkey was no easy thing to do without support. This explained a lot about the change in mood at the Manor. He could see now there were no empties anywhere. No dirty wine glasses and bottles of scotch littering the place. It explained too why the man seemed quieter and more reflective.

“Well done you.” De la Fère smiled at him and having grabbed his laptop from the desk, he sat on the floor near the fire, leaning against a leather sofa. “Sit wherever you like,” he said as he put on his reading glasses and began sifting through information on Google.

Hopelessly addicted all over again, if Porthos could have chosen the precise location where he wanted to sit, it would have been on de la Fère’s naked lap. Instead, he slouched next to him, basking in the warmth of the fire and leaning sideways to read the pages that came up, wondering why there was a square of electrician's tape covering the cam.

“You say that there were no public announcements of the planning application. Do you know this for a fact?” asked de la Fère, his eyes huge, magnified by the lenses.

“No one in town that I’ve spoken to was aware of it before consent was granted,” said Porthos.

“An entirely different thing.” De la Fère pushed his glasses to the top of his head and looked at Porthos. “The application would have had to be advertised in the News several times. Have you checked back copies?”

Porthos was getting that Jeremy Paxman feeling all over again. “No, I haven’t, but Treville did say that all the correct procedures had been followed.”

The Comte sighed. “He’s a good editor and he knows what he’s talking about. I suspect someone on the council took out a few weeks worth of microscopic advertising space. As far as notifying anyone else, well, the recreation ground doesn’t overlook any housing, so the next thing would be to find out who owns the land adjacent to it.”

“Right,” said Constance, bustling into the room. “It’s all arranged. Remi’s brother Albert is a builder and he’s coming over later to have a look at the roof.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said de la Fère, looking up at her, “but pointless, I’m afraid, as I can’t afford to pay for repairs. If I could, I wouldn’t have been climbing a ladder in the first place.”

“I used to think you were smart,” laughed Constance. “Didn’t I say he was smart?” She looked at Porthos who nodded obediently. “Well, you’re obviously not. You helped us out, now we can help you. It’s called being neighbourly.”

The Comte studied his worn out brogues. “But I couldn’t possibly-”

“You can and, more to the point, you will,” interrupted Constance, her arms folded. “Albert’s only going to patch up the roof and get his plumber mate to take a look at the boiler. Besides, it’s nearly winter so none of the trades have got much work on their books.” Throwing another log on the fire, she picked up the mugs from the mantlepiece. “Time for a top up of tea. These’ll be cold by now,” she said, and without waiting for any further arguments, she left the study.

De la Fère stared at the door in confusion. “Isn’t this my house? I thought it was this morning when I woke up.”

“When you woke up freezing to death.” Porthos grinned at him. “Trying to stop Constance Bonacieux is like trying to alter the path of hurricane. Plus, you’re not the only one who needs a distraction,” he added quietly. “Let her play mother. It’ll do her good.”

Don’t look at me like that, thought Porthos when de la Fère focused those intense blue eyes on him, full of questions. “Man trouble,” he explained, without being asked. “Boy trouble, to be more precise.”

“Ah, I see,” said the Comte. “I did wonder about them as a couple.”

“You’re more d'Artagnan's type,” said Porthos. “In fact you’re exactly his type.”

“But he’s very much not mine,” said de la Fère with a hint of a flush to his cheeks. “He reminds me a lot of my brother, actually.” Closing his eyes for a second, he put his glasses back on as a shield. “Now, let’s see what we can do about this recreation ground. There has to be a solution that doesn’t involve bribery and corruption. What we need here is a bit of lateral thinking.”

By sundown, the Manor was a very different place. Constance had nipped into town to fetch supplies from the supermarket and there was now a huge pot of stew bubbling away on the range and potatoes baking in the oven. Wood had been chopped, the fires were stoked, and the house was overflowing with tradespeople.

Albert had called Eric the plumber, who had called both Mathieu the electrician and Jacques the plasterer and now gallons of tea were being drunk whilst plans were being drawn up on how to restore the Manor to a reasonable enough state to survive the winter.

The only person missing was de la Fère and, after exploring the entire house and establishing that he was definitely not inside, Porthos began to worry. Recovery was a difficult time. Then he remembered that there was another important member of the household who also needed looking after and, putting on his coat, he made his way to the stables.

“Thought I’d find you hiding in here,” he said, sitting next to de la Fère who was leaning against the wall of a loose box. “Struggling?”

“Yes, but not in the way you mean,” said the Comte with an almost inaudible sigh of sadness. “I was trying to remember the last time anyone showed me they cared like they have done today.” He rested his head in his hands. “With the exception of you, I couldn’t think of one single instance.”

“I know what you mean,” said Porthos and when his arm slid around de la Fère’s shoulders it was just as much about his own need for comfort. “Families can be shit.” 

After this time spent in the confessional, kissing became an inevitability and when Porthos was pushed sideways into the straw, he wondered how many more times he would do this, and how many more times he would get hurt before he came to his senses. It didn’t matter: a hundred, a thousand, he didn't give a damn. Locked together, they tested each other's limits, words and kisses becoming jumbled as they lay together in that warm cushion of straw.

This time, it was Roger, rather than his owner, who spoiled the mood, chuntering on at them from the paddock and banging his hooves in a temper.

“He’s a spoilt brat,” laughed de la Fère, getting out of their makeshift bed. “He saw me come in here ages ago and now he’s telling me he’s hungry.”

“He’s not the only one.” Porthos grinned and stood up, brushing pieces of straw from his hair. “Not for food though.” He leaned in hopefully, needing some more of those kisses, a dusting of soft pecks that led to so much more. “Fuck, I want you,” he breathed, shaking his head in resignation at the look on de la Fère’s face. “I know," he said with a rueful smile. "It’s a mistake. If only the world were different.”

“I’m not saying no,” said de la Fère, resting a finger on Porthos' lips. “I’m saying slow down. This really is an impossible time.” Inclining his head, he kissed him again with a determined thrust of tongue. “Now let me go fetch my horse before he gets in a real strop and decides to take a chunk out of me in revenge.”

After settling Roger for the night, they attempted to groom each other, but it proved impossible to remove every stalk and seed head.

“We may as well’ve had a roll in the hay,” grinned Porthos. “We look as if we have.”

“Naked parts and straw don’t mix,” laughed de la Fère. “Believe me, I know from experience.”

“That’s not fair,” said Porthos. “I’ve missed out on the ultimate cliché in rural fun.”

“If anyone can convince me to change my mind then it’s you.”

“Bollocks. You’re wrong about my powers of persuasion,” said Porthos and he was loathed to leave the stables and return to normality. “I haven’t managed to sweet talk you into bed yet.”

“Not _yet_ ,” said de la Fère with that delicious grin. “For now it’s about campaign strategy and cheering up Constance.”

“What about me?” said Porthos with a pout. “Don’t I need cheering up?”

“Come _on_ ,” insisted de la Fère, slapping Porthos on the behind. “They’ll be wondering where we are.”

“Think how warm you’ll be, waking up tomorrow with me wrapped around you.”

“Not even listening to you.”

“I’m helping with your recovery.”

“On the contrary, you’re driving me to drink.”

“I’ve got something you can drink from.”

“Tell me, please,” smirked de la Fère as he opened the kitchen door and the wonderful aroma of cooking filled the air. “Describe it in detail.”

The banter was almost as much fun as the kissing, but Porthos knew de la Fère was right. With a house full of workmen and a plan of action to formulate, it wasn’t the time to embark on a risky love affair. Maybe tomorrow would be a more suitable day.

“Where’ve you two been?” said Constance. “I just went to the study to see if you wanted a cup of tea. I thought you’d been awfully quiet in there.”

“Bringing Roger in for the night,” said de la Fère, taking off his boots and chucking them into the scullery then getting washed at the huge butler sink.

“That reminds me,” said Constance. “There is something you can do for me in return.”

“What?”

The Comte was nervous, as shaky as newborn foal, and Porthos was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to hug him. He was a very odd man.

“Teach me to ride,” said Constance. “You look as if you enjoy it so much and I’ve always wanted to learn.”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure whether either Roger or I are very suitable, but we’ll give it a go.”

“Thank you so much." Constance beamed with delight. “Can we begin tomorrow?”

“I don’t see why not,” said de la Fère, hopping up into his usual spot on the kitchen counter. “Wear old clothes and boots, be prepared to fall off and know that you’ll also be learning to muck out and groom. Oh, and borrow a riding hat from someone.”

“Yes, sir,” said Constance, saluting him.

De la Fère smiled weakly and then picked up a newspaper off the pile, putting it down a second later with a sigh. 

Porthos knew what was wrong. He could see those jitters building and, as a former addict himself, he understood the panic that would be setting in. It was fix time. 

Catching Constance at a quiet moment, he took her to one side for a word. “You know he’s trying to quit drinking,” he said in a low voice.

“Of course I do. I’m not stupid.” She patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry, precious, my kid gloves are on.”


	12. Chapter 12

“You up for a pint or two at the Cocks tonight?” said Aramis as he sifted through endless shots of the Mayor, taken during the opening of the brand new sports hall at the senior school.

“Sorry, mate, “ said Porthos. “I’m busy.”

“What are you doing?”Aramis sounded very dejected.

“Just going to the Manor,” said Porthos, backspacing an unnecessary sentence out of his story. 

“What’s going on up there?” said Aramis. “It’s all everyone talks about. Le Comte this. Le Comte that. I’m beginning to wish we’d never brought him out of his shell.”

“He’s still _in_ his shell,” said Porthos. “When do you ever see him in town?”

“Not the point,” said Aramis with a deep sigh. “I hardly see you at all. Is it because of d’Artagnan and me?”

“Idiot,” said Porthos, poking him affectionately with a pencil. “You’re such a needy bugger. You’re the one who’s been spending all your free time with the kid.”

“But he’s out on the piss in Belgium and I’m alone,” whined Aramis, and then he laughed at himself. “Yes, I'm fully aware that being a prat, but I'm nosy and I still want to know what’s going on.”

"It's no big deal," said Porthos. “De la Fère agreed to help us with the appeal process, which has turned out to be a lot more complicated than we thought. Anyway, while we were there we discovered his house was falling down around his ears, so Constance roped in all the local trades to help patch it up. Oh, and he’s giving her riding lessons as a thank you. Nothing sinister. Come and see for yourself,” he said, praying that Aramis wouldn’t want to tag along tonight. He hadn’t had a moment alone with de la Fère for well over a week, and he was beginning to develop withdrawal symptoms from that mouth.

“Thanks, but I’ll give it a miss,” said Aramis. “A round of arrows with Rochefort sounds more entertaining than some legalese lessons from the Count.” He looked thoughtfully at Porthos. “I’ve been meaning to ask for a while, did you tell Constance about d’Artagnan?”

“Sorry, mate, but yeah I did,” said Porthos, hoping that Aramis wouldn’t be too angry with him. “She was cool about it." Clicking the send button, he offloaded his responsibilities to the boss and stood up, work done for the day. “She’d pretty much put two and two together by herself.”

"Actually, I wanted to say thanks," said Aramis. "She’s a good friend and I hated messing her about like that. Is she really okay?"

“She’s fine. We're keeping her distracted," said Porthos, clapping Aramis on the shoulder. "She's thinking about rising to the trot on Roger rather than d'Artagnan these days."

"Perverts." Aramis grinned. "You piss off and enjoy yourself and I'll see you later."

"You will indeed," said Porthos, but hopefully not too soon. He was intending to put his powers of persuasion to good use tonight, knowing that Constance was going to the cinema with Fleur and that he would have Monsieur le Comte all to himself.

It was still early, just gone three, but after a quick shower and change of clothes Porthos decided to head up to the Manor to see how the building work was progressing. He arrived to see a team of men up on the roof and watched them at work for a while, amazed at their skill and their complete absence of fear.

"Impressive, aren’t they?" said a voice from beside him and Porthos squirmed with pleasure at the subtle feel of a hand brushing against his thigh. "I never knew I had vertigo until I climbed that damn ladder, which the builders have now condemned, by the way.”

“So, if we hadn’t come to visit you that day then you’d still be up there, clinging on for grim death.”

“Without a doubt,” said de la Fère. “The only thing that made me climb down was the need to save face in front of you.”

“I was ready to catch you,” said Porthos. This was the oddest kind of foreplay ever: invisible to the eye, inaudible to anyone who might be listening, but intense enough to send the blood racing through him.

“I hoped you would, but I wouldn’t have blamed you for deliberately letting me fall after my erratic behaviour of late.” De la Fère smirked.

“Never,” said Porthos vehemently. “However much I might have wanted to.”

“Olivier,” yelled Constance, her voice coming from the direction of the stables. “Where are you? We’ve been doing this for hours. Roger and I are waiting for some more advanced lessons.”

“No rest for the wicked,” smiled de la Fère and together they walked to the paddock. “That woman wants to canter before she can walk.”

Porthos loved watching him teach Constance the basics of riding. He was calm and patient, ignoring her completely when she begged to learn everything in one day. Right now, she was spitting nails because he was putting her back on a lunge line.

“I don’t need it,” she said stubbornly.

“Until you stop pulling at his mouth then you do.”

After half an hour’s practice de la Fère unhooked the lunge. “Now keep to a steady rhythm and stay balanced,” he said, watching her critically as she trotted around the paddock and then in and out of the cones. “You’re doing really well, Constance.” He came over to join Porthos who was sitting on the fence rail. “I rather like this teaching thing. Will you be my next pupil?”

Porthos thought about it, imagining days spent hacking around the countryside together. As a city boy the idea was alien to him, but still very appealing. “Maybe once Constance has finished with your services.” He looked de la Fère up and down, taking in dirty riding boots and mud spattered breeches. “You’ve been out today.”

The man nodded. “Keeps my mind off the booze,” he said, worrying at his lip.

“Bad?” asked Porthos and received a second curt nod as an answer. “I’m always willing to distract you,” he said with a comforting smile.

“The last thing I want you to be is a distraction,” said de la Fère quietly, sitting up next to him on the rail. “I want to enjoy every second I’m with you and not be thinking, instead, about how much I need a slug of scotch.”

Porthos knew then that the bad timing had nothing to do with builders, or riding lessons. He remembered, as if it were yesterday, that all encompassing need to go out and buy a wrap to smoke. When nothing else mattered but his fix. Because just one more chase wouldn’t hurt. 

“I get it,” he said, because he truly did. Maybe one day he’d even tell him how much. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“My legs hurt,” yelped Constance, from the far side of the paddock. 

De la Fère hopped off the fence and strode towards her, watching as she brought Roger to a tidy halt. “Walk him around for five or ten minutes,” he said, patting the horse's neck. “Cool him down.”

“He’s hardly broken a sweat,” said Constance.

“Not the point,” insisted de la Fère, tipping his head to one side. “You know that. Riding is all about discipline. Warm him down, untack and groom him then you can feed him. After that, you can think about cleaning the tack and your boots.”

“What about your boots?” said Constance, looking down at his mud covered apparel.

“You can clean them too if you like.” He grinned at her.

“Funny man.” Constance frowned from boredom as she and Roger ambled round and round the paddock.

“Just be glad I did the mucking out this morning,” shouted de la Fère.

Leaving them to it, Porthos headed for the kitchen to put the kettle on. The light was beginning to fade and the roofers were now packing away their equipment.

“Want a cup of tea before you go, guys?” shouted Porthos, sticking his head out of the window.

Albert shook his head. “No thanks. We’re off to thaw out in the pub. Oh, talking of thawing, can you tell his lordship the boiler’s working fine? The central heating system’s been drained and refilled and the house should be a lot warmer for him tonight.”

“Thanks, mate. Will do,” said Porthos. “He’ll be very grateful.”

Making a pot of tea, he left it to stew and then had a wander around to see if there were any visible changes since he was last inside. The great hall was still a beautiful folly of a room, too grandiose to be useable, but at least now it was slightly warmer than before. Damp plaster had been removed and replaced, and it was beginning to look a little more loved in there.

After a brief tour around the upstairs, Porthos headed for the study--a space filled with mixed emotions and memories--to light the fire ready for their evening together. As always, the flames transfixed him and, not certain whether or not he’d actually dozed off, he looked up in surprise when de la Fère brought him in a mug of tea.

“It’s fresh,” he said. “I threw away the cold tar that was in the pot. You’ve been asleep for over an hour. Constance has gone home.”

“Sit next to me,” said Porthos, yawning and stretching then patting the empty space on the sofa.

“Can’t,” said de la Fère. “I need a bath. Come and talk to me while I wallow.”

“Albert told me to tell you that the boiler’s fixed,” said Porthos. “So no need for any more crossed fingers _and_ you have central heating again.”

“Fantastic.” The man shivered with hedonistic pleasure. “Now I just have to think of a way to pay the bills.”

Porthos followed him up to the bathroom, mug of tea in hand, wondering how this strange dance of theirs would end. It was the puppy love that he’d never experienced as a teenager: a lot of kissing and too many frustrated wanks.

Where he grew up, everyone was promiscuous. Fucking was just something to do to pass the time and he’d been sexually active since he was thirteen years old. He was so bloody relieved when he plucked up the courage, in his freshers year of university, to get tested and be told by the clinic that he was disease free. Since then, he’d been a very careful man.

Sitting on the tiled edge, he watched the splayed spout of the tap gush boiling hot water. “So, what are your latest ideas regarding planning permission?” he asked to distract himself from other, more dirty thoughts. Truthfully, he’d barely put any effort into the appeal recently.

“Glad you asked that,” said de la Fère. “We’ve been assuming that the only thing to do is to try and get the planning consent revoked, which we both agree is a costly, and probably pointless exercise.”

“But isn’t it the only way?” asked Porthos.

“No.” De la Fère shook his head emphatically. “Just because land has planning permission granted doesn’t mean that the owner has to act on it.”

“So, we ask Louis nicely not to build on the rec and to let us keep using it as a sports ground.” Porthos laughed. “Like that’s going to happen.”

“He might be persuaded to change his mind, you never know. You just need the right sweetener.” 

It seemed hopeless and, to be honest, rather unimportant now that Porthos was watching de la Fère strip down to a pair of boxer briefs and then lean over to turn on the cold tap.

“Tease,” he said, nuzzling into his side and breathing in the musky odour of fresh sweat.

“Don’t, I must be rank.”

“Nope.” Porthos slid his finger across a collarbone. “Just like a bloke should smell.”

De la Fère kissed him briefly on the mouth and then took off his boxers. “You have very strange taste.”

“In blokes?” laughed Porthos, watching appreciatively and running his hand over that bare arse, moments before it disappeared under the water. “If you say so.”

This, decided Porthos, was the most heavenly form of torture ever invented. He got to watch de la Fère splash around naked in that huge bath. He got to lather soap over his skin and play with his wet hair. He got to wrap him in a towel and dry him off, then kiss him fiercely until they were both aroused. Torture indeed.

Fondling him through the thick terrycloth, Porthos slipped a hand underneath to cop a quick feel, but de la Fère pulled away. “I need a piss,” he said.

“Let me help,” growled Porthos, standing close behind him, chin resting on his shoulder as he held that coveted cock loose in his hand and waited for it to soften off. Feeling it twitch and release, he aimed the stream into the toilet bowl, enjoying this perfect moment of closeness.

“My turn,” he laughed, after he’d shaken off the drips, and was surprised at how personal it felt to have another person in charge of his bodily functions. It proved almost impossible to relax enough to pee, but when he did so it was with a thrill at the shared intimacy.

“That was far from normal,” smirked de la Fère as he wrapped the towel tightly around his waist and headed for the bedroom.

“Probably not,” said Porthos. “But only because this abstinence shit is driving us mad. You do know how much easier it would be to give in and have a really good fuck?” He sat on the bed, watching de la Fère dress in his regulation cords and a sweater. 

A hand stroked Porthos’ hair. “I promise it’ll be more satisfying when I’m thinking about you, rather than a glass of pinot noir.”

“But how will I know?” said Porthos, catching hold of that hand and tugging de la Fère onto the bed until he was lying between Porthos’ spread legs and smiling down at him.

“You’ll know. You always know when I’m having a bad day. It’ll be the same with the good ones.”

They played for a long time, rolling around on the bed and nipping at each other’s mouths, then licking in deep and sliding tongues together. Puppy games turned to serious kissing and then to frottage, with Porthos braced on an arm and crushing himself against de la Fère, jostling from side to side, his arousal rolling over him in waves.

Eyes locked, they scrambled to release themselves--zips unfastening, trousers and pants shoved down--and the blissful sensation of bare cock pressed against bare cock was enough to send them over the edge. It was the most mind-blowing, innocent sex Porthos had ever experienced.

“I was thinking about you,” said de la Fère, staring at him in fascination.

All cleaned up, they made their way downstairs to the kitchen where de la Fère hunted around in the freezer and opted, in the end, for a rather predictable dinner of pizza.

Porthos watched him move about the room, couldn’t take his eyes off him and felt a constant urge to reach out and touch. They’d almost had sex, spilled come over each other, and yet Porthos felt no less addicted. If anything, it had only heightened his desire. 

“Come here,” he growled, catching de la Fère around the waist and trapping him within the circle of his arms for more kisses. “Do I get to stay the night and warm your feet?”

“I’d love that,” said de la Fère. “But how do we explain your presence in my bed to the builders when they arrive first thing?”

“Tell them I’m your hot water bottle,” smirked Porthos, but it was never going to be a winner of an excuse.

They ate in the study, lounging next to each other whilst watching TV on the laptop and later, as they sprawled together on the sofa, Porthos felt close enough to bring up a subject that had been bothering him. “Tell me about the Comte de la Fère,” he said.

De la Fère stretched out, back sliding against Porthos’ chest as he leaned over to suck kisses onto corded tendons. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” said Porthos. “Anything. Something. You don’t like me calling you Olivier.”

“Not particularly. It’s not me.”

“You mean it’s not your real name?”

“It’s the name I was given by my parents, so I suppose that makes it real. Olivier de la Fère was a sad little boy who grew up to be a naïve young man,” he said, glancing sideways at Porthos. “What’s with all the questions?”

“I just want to know what to call you?” Porthos had been certain for a while it was the use of that given name that had caused the man to run away last time. 

“I don’t know.” De la Fère twisted around, sliding his hands under Porthos’ sweater and tonguing a trail of wet kisses across his throat. “Does it matter?”

“I think so,” said Porthos, pushing him gently away. “It would be helpful.”

“I’m like this house, neither one thing nor the other.” De la Fère laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Olivier will do. It’s the only name I have.”


	13. Chapter 13

After sitting through what was probably the worst version of the Wizard of Oz ever performed on any stage in the world, Porthos was trying to comprehend how a whole school full of students could be entirely lacking in talent. Maybe the drama and music departments were the ones to blame, unable to sort the wheat from the chaff.

“How do I review that?” he said, gazing helplessly at Aramis who was sitting next to him in the car, smugly looking through his set of photos, happy in the knowledge that his job today was the easy one.

“In a word, lie,” said Aramis with a grin. “But don’t worry because we have the infants’ nativity play to watch on Monday. They’ll warm your heart. If you don’t shed a tear or two then I’ll know you must be made of stone.”

Porthos wasn’t made of stone. In fact, he was currently overflowing with so much milk of human kindness that, by the time they got back to the cottage, he’d even thought of some spectacularly clever ways to gloss over the dreadful performances tonight. Before he could forget them, he typed up a quick draft of his review that would put a smile on the faces of parents and students alike.

“You really are a workaholic,” said Aramis, passing him a coffee. “I’ll have to shackle you soon before you make me look bad.”

“Too late, mate,” laughed Porthos, as he closed his laptop and switched on the telly. “Treville loves me, remember.”

When the doorbell chimed, Aramis leapt up from his chair to answer it and Porthos sighed, knowing exactly what that meant. No sleep for any of them tonight. 

D’Artagnan charged in, chucking his coat on the table then following Aramis into the kitchen, and the sound of sloppy kissing was quite plain to hear. Porthos hoped they’d just piss off to bed. He couldn’t decide which was worse: being the frustrated grump without anyone, or the lovesick fool with a boyfriend who was permanently unavailable. How good it must feel to be Aramis, with a constant supply of sex on tap.

“Hi, Porthos,” said D'Artagnan, squeezing in next to him on the sofa. “Done all your Christmas shopping yet?” 

“No,” he growled. It was _the_ question on everyone's lips. He’d never had to deal with this in the past and was unsure what was expected of him. What was the convention? Did he ask first and then buy, or just shop for the whole town? It was so much easier when it was a case of sharing your spliff. “I don’t do Christmas,” he said with a shrug.

“You do now,” said Aramis, who was standing by the back door and wafting his cigarette smoke outside. “We’re big on gift giving in Howerton. No Scrooges or Grinches allowed.” He grinned broadly. "Talking of Grinches, are these rumours true that the Comte de la Recluse is inviting everyone to l’Hermitage for a Christmas party?”

“Sort of.” Porthos snorted with laughter. “Constance suggested a Midwinter Ball and Olivier can’t say no to her. Plus, he wanted to thank everyone for helping him out with the house repairs.”

To be honest, Porthos was getting more and more fucked off with the idea, but only because he never got a second alone with his man. Whenever they had a moment to spare, the workmen were always up at the Manor doing odd jobs, and, between riding lessons and party planning, Constance may as well have moved in. All he wanted was five minutes to wrap his lips around Olivier’s pretty cock, though, as far as he could see, the only way he was going to get that to happen was to write it on a Christmas list and send it up the bloody chimney.

"We won't be invited to the party," said d'Artagnan glumly.

"Why ever not?" asked Porthos in confusion.

"Constance won't want us there, and the Comte doesn't give a stuff," said d'Artagnan.

"Constance is totally fine,” said Porthos. "And Olivier likes you. Remember how good he was about the cricket tournament?" He watched the kid's expression brighten. "Only he doesn’t like you in that way," he added quickly, remembering that brief kiss.

"But he might if he gets to know me better," said d'Artagnan hopefully. "He must get so depressed living up there all alone. No wonder he's bad tempered all the time."

“If we go to the party at least you'll get to _see_ your belovéd Comte," sighed Aramis. "There's not even an outside chance that Anne will be there. I’m sure she and the dickhead will still be skiing in Val Thorens."

Porthos wanted to bang their heads repeatedly against the wall. There were so many truths he wanted to tell them. "I'm going to bed," he said, giving up before he went insane. "Try not to keep me awake."

"We'll give you a head start," said Aramis, with a smile that evolved into a lascivious grin. "Before we start giving head."

Pair of matching idiots they might be, thought Porthos as he stomped up the stairs, but at least they were a pair.

There was something about the fresh air in Howerton that worked better than any sleeping pill. Out like a light, Porthos was disturbed by loud noises, and he was about to yell at his friends to shut the fuck up when he opened his eyes and realised it must be pretty late for it to be this light outside.

Stumbling downstairs for a coffee, he was treated to the sight of d'Artagnan stretched out naked on the hearthrug in front of the fire, with Aramis sitting at his easel, sketching him.

"I hope that's not a Christmas present for your mother," said Porthos, peering over Aramis' shoulder at the preliminary drawing. "Exaggerating a bit, aren't you, mate?"

"Artistic licence," laughed Aramis. "Now sod off and let me get on with it. I need to take photos for reference, and you're blocking all the light."

"I know when I'm not wanted," said Porthos, making a coffee and carrying it back upstairs.

Aramis' face fell a mile. “I was joking, Porthos,” he said.

"I know, buddy." Porthos laughed at him over the banister rail. "I'm grabbing a quick shower then I’m off up to the Manor. We might get a chance to work on the appeal today, if we're lucky."

Fuck the appeal, thought Porthos, fifteen minutes later as he hared up the road in his Golf. There were far more important things to work on, namely that nonexistent sex life of theirs and as he pulled into the driveway he was unable to deny his growing irritation at seeing Dolly parked skewiff in front of the house, as if she and Constance owned the place.

Annoyance soon gave way to a different set of emotions, however, when Olivier galloped past at a ridiculous speed, crashing through the coaching yard, dismounting dangerously, and dragging a lathered up and fractious Roger into the stables.

Worried, Porthos got out of his car, and was about to see what was the matter when a motorbike came roaring in, and skidded to a halt in front of him. It was Labarge, Richelieu’s henchman. Helmetless and furious, he got off the bike and stalked towards Porthos who stood, arms folded, a six foot four barrier of solid muscle.

“What the fuck do you want?” Porthos snarled. “This is private property.”

“Then tell that piece of shit Comte who lives here to stay off Mr Richelieu’s _private property_.” Labarge stared past Porthos to the stable block, his eyes slitted and mean. “Tell him that if I ever catch him trespassing again I’ll rip his head clean off his shoulders and that’s his final fucking warning.”

“What’s going on here?” said Constance, charging out of the kitchen.

“If I were you, darling, I’d keep that perky little nose out of things that have nothing to do with you,” said Labarge and, sitting astride his bike, he started the engine and raced away, back tyre spitting a shower of stones at them as he rode off.

“What the hell?” said Constance, her arms outstretched, looking at Porthos as if he had all the answers.

“I have no bloody idea, but I’m about to find out,” Porthos replied. Harking back to his early days in Howerton, he recalled that it wasn’t the first time Olivier had been seen on Richelieu’s land. 

They hurried into the stables where the Comte was doing his best to calm Roger down, soothing him with quiet words and gentle pats.

“You. Me. Kitchen now,” snapped Porthos, knowing better than to go into the loose box with them. Roger didn’t know him that well, and he wasn’t in a pleasant mood by the look of things.

Olivier tugged the scarf down from where it was covering his mouth like a bandana. “Has he gone?” Porthos nodded curtly. “Constance, can you walk Roger around for me? He needs cooling off and washing down with the hose. We’ll be back in a minute.”

“We’ll be back when we’ve finished talking,” growled Porthos, clamping a hand tightly around the man’s arm then yanking him out of the stables and into the house. “What were you doing on Richelieu’s land?”

“Lost track of where I was.” Olivier put his rucksack down on the counter and took off his jacket, scarf and gloves. “It’s an easy enough thing to do when you’re out riding.”

The man was sweat drenched and exhilarated, his eyes sparkled with excitement, his face was flushed, and Porthos would have kissed the daylights out of him, but for one thing. “You’re lying to me,” he said, stepping in close. “Tell me the truth. What were you doing?”

“It doesn’t concern you,” said Olivier dismissively.

“Anything that concerns you, concerns me,” said Porthos. “So tell me.”

“Stay out of it.” Olivier slammed against Porthos for an open mouthed, bruising kiss, shoving him across the kitchen until he backed into the dresser, the contents crashing together inside the cupboards.

Fueled on adrenaline they reached for one another, making light work of buttons and zips, clothing pushed down as hands met cocks, and lips and tongues reconnected.

“Want to fuck you,” muttered Olivier, the words a warm whisper. “Let me fuck you.”

Fingers dug into Porthos’ hip, encouraging him to turn around and he was a heartbeat away from complying. He could taste that second hand adrenaline, was getting off on it, as high and as stupid as if he were coked up. He wanted nothing more than this, aching to be shoved against the furniture and fucked into tomorrow, but then he came to his senses. He’d had sex this way too many times to count and those days were over. “No,” he said, squeezing Olivier’s cock, all slippery wet in his hand, until it jerked against his skin. “Not here. Not like this.”

Letting him slip through his fingers, he slid into Olivier’s fist in a matching rhythm, fluid and loose as they brought each other off. They kissed again, slow this time, deep and calm, and when Porthos came it was with a sigh of relief as he felt a matching wash of warmth spill over him. 

Afterwards, with the blood still thundering in his ears, he was hit by the dreaded post orgasm shame. They were feet away from an unlocked kitchen door, undressed, and a mess in so many ways.

“Will we ever get this right?” muttered Olivier in despair.

“I don’t know,” said Porthos, reaching for the kitchen paper. “I’m beginning to wonder.” How had he managed to get involved with such a complicated man?

“I want us to work,” said Olivier, taking a few sheets from the roll and cleaning them both carefully, then tidying their clothing.

“Then tell me the truth,” said Porthos, burying his face in Olivier’s neck and breathing in the heady scent of sweat, sex and outdoors.

“Listen to me, Porthos,” said Olivier, pulling back a step and looking him square in the eyes. “When I say this, I do so purely with your best interests at heart. It’s honestly none of your business.”

“I understand,” said Porthos, sighing in frustration.

“I know you’re angry with me” said Olivier. “And with good reason.” He heaved in a breath. “Go away, think things through if you must, but please give me one more chance.”

“I don’t know if I can,” said Porthos. To be honest he’d had it up to the eyeballs with secrets and lies. Howerton was a simple little town with an easygoing way of life. If only he’d played it safe in the first place. “I’ll see you,” he said as he opened the door, and stepped out into the sunshine.

Constance, oblivious to everything, was happily walking Roger around the paddock on a halter and Porthos wished he could exchange lives with her. Getting into his car, he was about to drive away--for good?--but the sound of smashing glass was an alarm he couldn’t ignore.

Running into the house, he saw Olivier leaning over the sink as if he were about to be sick, clinging on to the rounded edges for grim death. “I’m okay,” he said in a monotone. “You can go.” The whisky bottle was in pieces, the Macallan label stark against white porcelain, surrounded by a puddle of amber liquid and smashed glass. “Somebody important gave it to me. I couldn’t throw it away.”

Porthos turned on the tap. “You have done now.”

“I have and I’m fine. Just go.”

Porthos felt decidedly off balance. “You might be fine, but I’m not and I don’t want to leave you.” He stroked a hand down Olivier’s back and realised how much the man was shaking. “Come here,” he said. “I need a hug, and so do you.”

He had no idea how long they stood in the kitchen holding each other. He didn’t know if there were silent tears, there might well have been, but he did know that there would be one more chance on his part, however stupid a decision that might turn out to be.

“Oh,” said Constance, when she came in. “Sorry.” She took in the smashed bottle and the shaken men and gave Porthos a smile of support. “Roger’s happily stuffing his face with bran mash and I’ve got a list of things as long as my arm to get on with, so I’ll leave you boys in peace for the day.”


	14. Chapter 14

"I don't know why I'm doing this," grumbled Porthos as he pushed his way through the masses of shoppers that were taking up every square inch of Oxford Street. "You do know there's this thing they've invented, where you type in what you want to buy into the internet and it comes delivered in a box?"

"Philistine," laughed Constance. "I can't do Christmas without seeing the lights and buying at least one new bauble from Harrods."

"I can't do Christmas," said Porthos emphatically.

"Hush," said Constance. "Now that all the available men in my life have turned out to be gay, then at least let me have the pleasure of shopping with one of them."

The drizzle turned to rain and they detoured into the nearest café, where Constance ordered the most festive latté and Porthos had a flat white. There was nowhere to sit, so they leaned on a wall near the loos with their bags tucked between their legs. 

"I'm not gay," said Porthos, mostly because he hoped it would excuse him from more shopping. Bisexual and gay were not the same.

"So, you aren't sleeping with Olivier?" said Constance with a twinkle in her eye.

"No, actually I'm not." It wasn’t a lie. There had been no sex and they'd not shared a bed. They were both still too shaken up and were treading carefully.

"Really?" Constance looked surprised. "You seem so close."

"We are," confessed Porthos. "Closer than I want to be, but he's struggling to quit drinking and I'm struggling with the wall he's built around himself. We kiss. We've messed around a couple of times, but it's no big romance." God, it was good to have someone to talk to. He glanced at Constance, wondering whether this was the reason she'd engineered the shopping trip.

"I think you're wrong," she said matter-of-factly. "I think it's a bigger romance than either of you can deal with. You're the reason he's finally letting people get close. He loves you and you love him."

Porthos didn't try to deny it. "Doesn't mean it's easy," he said gruffly. It was more like a swordfight than a dance the way they constantly kept each other at bay.

"Love isn't a fairytale," said Constance. "It's real and it's ugly at times, but that doesn't mean it's not worth it." Her words of wisdom were ruined by the loud sucking sound as she slurped down the last drips of cherry chocolate cream.

“Have I been unfair to Alice?” asked Porthos suddenly. It was the one thing that had been bothering him since he’d accepted that he was in a relationship with Olivier.

“I don’t think so,” said Constance. “All you’ve ever done is chat to her in the pub, and, to be honest, she’s still a mess after breaking up with David. They had been together since they were at school.”

Porthos was glad he’d plucked up the courage to ask. “Now all we need to do is find you someone,” he smiled. “How about Treville? He’s single.”

"That man’s married to his job,” said Constance. “And I'm perfectly happy on my own, thank you. Come on, gay best friend. You need to buy at least three more presents, including one for your feller, and I need to hunt down some finishing touches for the party tomorrow."

Three hours later, Porthos peered inside a very empty wallet. “I think I’ve spent all of next year’s salary,” he said. Most expensive of all was the vintage Breitling watch from Portobello Road, but he was pleased with it. It would look good on Olivier’s wrist and be a lot more personal than a new cardigan. “He won’t buy me anything,” he said. “The only one likely to get a gift from him will be the damn horse.”

“Oh my god,” said Constance, her hand over her mouth. “I forgot Roger.”

Porthos shook his head in disbelief. “You can buy him a pack of Polos from the newsagents in town. He doesn’t need a Liberty print horse blanket.”

They were heading back to Paddington on the tube, when Constance looked across the carriage at him with a worried expression on her face. “I never thought to ask,” she said. “Is there anyone you want to visit before we go home?”

“No,” said Porthos with a definite shake of the head. There was nothing left for him in Hackney but bad memories of a rotten childhood.

“Family?”

“None worth mentioning.”

“Oh, Porthos.”

“It’s all good,” he said, leaning forward and squeezing her hand. “I got away.”

The train journey was a nightmare and they had to stand all the way home, squashed together like sardines in a tin. Luckily it wasn’t too far or Porthos’ aching legs would have given up on him. Shopping was the most tiring activity on the planet.

It was late when he arrived back at the cottage and, after shoving a curry down his throat, he carried his parcels upstairs with the intention of coming back down and watching some TV. Bed, though, was too appealing and, climbing under the duvet, he checked emails and surfed the internet for a while, wishing Olivier was less of a Luddite. The only time Porthos had mentioned Skype, he’d looked at him blankly and he didn’t even appear to own a phone, for chrissake.

It was still raining when Porthos woke up, typical December weather in Middle England, but it didn’t dampen either his spirits or his ardour. Contrary to d’Artagnan’s low expectations, there was an open invitation from the Manor to everyone in Howerton and, with the whole house being on view for the first time, the level of expectation was high.

Albert and his team had been stars. All the plumbing had now been fixed and the windows mended, so the house might still be down at heel and stuck in a time warp, but it was functional and warm.

Porthos had been given strict instructions by Constance to arrive as early as possible. She had trees to put in place and decorate, there was wood to be chopped and the newly opened up dining room needed to be made ready to receive the plates of food and bottles of booze from the guests. Everyone in town was now clued in that their host might have a title and a big house, but he was not a wealthy man.

“Can we hide?” said Olivier, who was pacing up and down the kitchen when Porthos arrived. “I don’t do this kind of thing.”

“Me either.” Porthos looked around. “Is the coast clear?”

“Clear enough,” said Olivier, moving closer, his hand clasped around the back of Porthos’ neck to draw him in for a quick kiss. “Come and see the great hall before people spoil the view.”

This time, with no band playing, the furniture was all in place and, with the fires roaring and a giant of a Christmas tree in the corner, it looked spectacular.

“Constance and Albert were here at six and when I came back from my ride it was all done,” said Olivier.

“You’re feeling the Christmas spirit,” laughed Porthos. “You haven’t been _at_ the Christmas spirit, have you?” He stood behind Olivier, his arms folded around him as they both gazed up at the tree.

“No and no.” Olivier leant back against him. “I’m far too cynical, plus I smashed my last bottle of whisky, remember?” When the doors swung open he didn’t jerk away, but remained relaxed where he was and Porthos, awash with emotion, buried his face in that unruly mane of hair.

“Isn’t that a pretty picture,” said Constance, bustling in with a ton of greenery to string around the room. “I love seeing you two together.” She paused. “Now stop cuddling and get on with some work.”

"We're admiring your skills," said Olivier.

"Aramis is the artist. He'd be much better at doing the Christmas decorating," said Porthos, managing to regain control of his wayward feelings.

"I know what you're doing." Constance folded her arms. "And neither of you are getting out of it. There are step ladders by the door and nails on the table, so I'm sure, between you, you can pin up some holly around the picture rails. After that, there's the tree in the hall to be finished." Not allowing them any time to launch a counterattack, she raced out of the room.

Porthos looked sideways at the pile of branches and then at the man in his arms. He knew which was most appealing. "Come here," he said and as Olivier turned, smiling up at him, Porthos was spellbound.

Warmed by the fire and backlit by the tree they kissed, lingering over each other, hands sliding under layers of winter clothing and wandering over bare skin. As carefree as they had ever been together, Porthos wondered why it had to be now, when the house was bustling with people. "We could go to bed," he said in a voice that was gruff with need. "But I reckon Constance would hunt us down and drag us back downstairs."

"She would indeed," said Olivier. "But she won't tonight." There was a quiet truth to his words that set Porthos’ heart racing with excitement. "The sooner we carry out our orders, the sooner I can have you."

It wasn't an easy job attaching branches to crumbling wooden batons that were twenty feet from the ground. Nor was it simple to decorate a fifteen foot Christmas tree to Constance's satisfaction. Olivier excused himself halfway through to go and chop wood and when Porthos eventually escaped, he found the man leaning on the paddock rail, feeding Roger an apple.

"Coward," laughed Porthos. "You know hell's broken loose in there. Fleur’s arrived and there's an awful lot of giggling going on. We've been given updated orders to go and get ready. Constance says there's a new shirt for you on your bed. She said to wear it with the charcoal suit in your wardrobe."

"I wonder if she's ironed my socks," muttered Olivier, leading Roger through to the stables with the promise of food. 

As afternoon progressed to evening, Porthos could feel the tension building in Olivier. The spicy scent of mulled wine permeated the house and he knew how difficult this must be. He'd struggle now if confronted by a wrap and he’d been clean for five years. "You'll be okay. I'll make sure of it."

"This is a bad idea," said Olivier grimly.

They weren't ready to be out as a couple, but Porthos had no intention of leaving the man's side. "It'll be okay," he said again. "And if it's not, then to hell with the world and we slope off to bed."

"Sounds like a plan," said Olivier, breathing in deeply, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours.

When the first guests began to arrive, Olivier rose to the occasion and was the perfect host, greeting everyone as if it was something he'd been used to doing his life whole life. He was the strangest recluse on the planet.

D’Artagnan and Aramis turned up fashionably late, both of them looking like something out of an Italian magazine, and with Olivier dressed in that scruffy suit and kingfisher blue shirt, Porthos, who had been happy with his understated rock star look, was feeling dull compared to everyone else. 

Making a beeline for the love of his life, d’Artagnan manoeuvred Olivier towards one of the sofas where he proceeded to describe the cricket tour to him in minute detail. Olivier looked over in desperation at Porthos and he was about to come to the rescue, when he noticed Alice on the far side of the room and made an ungentlemanly exit, in order to avoid her. 

“Talk to me outside while I have a fag,” hissed Aramis in his ear. “I need some advice.”

The rain had finally stopped, but the sky was still full of it and Porthos and Aramis set out on a circular tour around the Manor, never venturing too far away from the building in case the clouds decided to burst again.

“Well, what is it?” said Porthos, when Aramis had smoked three quarters of his cigarette and still not mentioned the thing that was bothering him.

“It’s Anne,” said Aramis and Porthos let out a deep sigh.

“Anne, who is in France skiing with her husband. That Anne?”

“Who else?” said Aramis impatiently. “When d’Artagnan was away-”

Porthos interrupted Aramis with another loud sigh. “I’m pretty sure I can take a stab at what’s coming next?”

“Quiet,” said Aramis. “This is important. My future happiness is at stake.”

“So, you fucked her and?” Porthos was getting cold and he very much wanted to go back inside and see how Olivier was coping.

"No." Aramis shook his head vehemently. “I made love to her. God, I adore her, Porthos. In fact, I’ve asked her to marry me.”

Trust Aramis to get ahead of himself, thought Porthos. “Only you.”

“The thing is, she doesn’t know whether she wants to leave Louis.” Aramis looked broken hearted. “I thought once we finally gave in to our feelings that would be it.”

“Perhaps she just wanted a no strings shag,” muttered Porthos. “It does happen.”

“ _Porthos_ ,” said Aramis. “This is love we’re talking about.”

“Have you told d’Artagnan?” asked Porthos and Aramis looked baffled.

“Why would I?” he said. “You know he and I are just fuck buddies. He’s inside right now, waving his cock at the Comte and practically begging him for a screw.”

Okay, enough was enough. Porthos headed, in determined strides, back to the house. “What do you want me to tell you, mate?” he said on the way. “If you love her then keep working at it and prove to her that you do. Otherwise, give up and find someone real to have a relationship with.”

“You’re right,” said Aramis. “I do have a bad habit of expecting things to happen, just because I want them to.”

When Porthos finally fought his way back to the vast living room, there was no sign of either Olivier or d'Artagnan. Jesus Christ, where were they? How was he supposed to find them in this heaving mass of red sparkling bodies? People he’d never seen before had turned up, just to have a shufti at the Manor.

Assuming the worst, he raced upstairs and threw open the bedroom door, knowing for certain that he was about to get yet another view of d'Artagnan's pert little arse, wriggling away on the end of a good seeing to. The bed was empty and there was no one here, but, having worked himself up to a state, Porthos frantically checked all the other empty rooms, only to then discover d'Artagnan emerging from the bathroom.

"Olivier said I could use the upstairs loo, " he explained.

"Okay." Was it a vacuous lie? wondered Porthos as peered around the bathroom door and then followed the kid down the flight of stairs, watching suspiciously as d’Artagnan headed for the great hall, smiling with delight the moment he caught sight of Aramis.

Porthos eventually found _his_ man, where he should have looked all along, tucked away in the usual hiding place, stretched out on the sofa with his nose buried in a book. 

“Thank God,” he said when looked up and saw Porthos. “It’s an infestation out there and that boy is a piece of gum sticking to my shoe.”

Porthos turned the key in the lock. “D’Artagnan can’t help it if he loves you,” he said, feeling generous as he stalked towards Olivier. “You are very loveable.”

“I am not,” smirked Olivier, chucking his glasses to one side then sitting up to make room for Porthos on the couch.

Porthos stole the book from his hands, laughing when he saw it was a rather musty, leather bound edition of A Christmas Carol.”

“It seemed appropriate as I was feeling Scrooge like,” said Olivier with a grin. “I wanted you all to myself.”

“You’ve got me,” said Porthos, pushing him down onto the couch and working his mouth over neck and jaw. “Question is, what do you want to do with me?” Olivier moaned and it was so raw and so fucking needy that Porthos grew fully hard in a split second. “Tell me.”

Olivier twisted them around until he was on top, licking at Porthos’ mouth then sliding along to his collarbone, shifting lower and rucking up his t-shirt to worry each nipple in turn, with lips and teeth, until Porthos was squirming with delight.

That mouth continued to glide over his skin, inch by excruciating inch, until Olivier was nuzzling at his belly, fighting to undo belt and button fly with fingers that were shaking.

Porthos helped out, lifting his hips and pushing jeans and pants down to mid thigh, hardly able to breathe when Olivier buried his face in him, showering him with closed mouth kisses then lifting his head to stare at him. 

“Stand up,” he said, his voice roughened with lust.

Porthos shuddered with excitement, scrambling to unsteady feet and as Olivier knelt in front of him he stroked a hand through his hair. “Take it slow,” he said, his heart racing. “I could come right now.”

Olivier nodded and leaned in, gliding his hand down Porthos’ cock and then pressing his lips to the tip to lick away the glossy bead of fluid that formed and reformed endlessly. Eyes darting upward, he took Porthos into him, slow and easy, lips loose, tongue lax, letting him get used to the heat of his mouth.

“Oh, Christ,” breathed Porthos, rapt as Olivier began to suck him off. He’d wanked over this so many times, come over this fantasy picture in his head, semen flooding his cupped hand as he imagined Olivier swallowing every drop of him. 

With both hands now tangled into Olivier’s hair, tension building and muscles clenching, Porthos began to lead the play, pulling out to rub the head of his cock over Oliver’s lips then slamming back inside, into the tight track of his throat.

Olivier was moaning now, rocking back and forward, yielding so very beautifully as Porthos fucked his mouth with absolute pleasure, every sense heightened, his emotions a mess.

“That’s so good, so perfect.” Unable to staunch the the flow of superlatives, he threaded his fingers into Olivier’s hair, holding him in place as his hips jerked then canted forward and he emptied himself into Olivier’s mouth, shuddering, shaking, drained and complete all at the same time.

Falling to his knees, he licked away the dribbles of come from Olivier’s lips then, resting a hand against his cheek, he kissed him, kissed him again and again, sliding a hand under the waistband of his suit trousers.

“No,” smiled Olivier, moving away. “I’d last a second and I want you for a lot longer than that. Would the party goers notice if we disappeared off to bed, do you think?”

“Who cares,” said Porthos. “I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.” Tucking himself away then tidying his clothes, he lay back onto the sofa with a sigh of contentment. “Give me a minute though.”

Olivier collapsed onto him. “Me too.”

Porthos hugged him, petting him as they lay dozing together, waiting for the fire to die down. 

When the flames were finally gone and the room was mired in darkness, Olivier stood up and held out a hand to Porthos. “You go first,” he said. “I’ll check on Roger and then follow along in a while.”

“You and that damn horse,” laughed Porthos. “He’s not your baby.”

“There are strangers here.” It was unusual to hear a sulky tone in that voice. “I just want to make sure no one’s decided to take him for a midnight ride.”

“Put your pout away,” grinned Porthos. “I was only teasing. I’ll meet you under the duvet in ten minutes.”

Their parting kiss may have been soft and sweet, but it was loaded with promise and as Porthos headed up the stairs he was a very happy man. It was only after he’d finished in the bathroom and was about to get undressed that he remembered he’d left his phone in the study. The talk of strangers--all of them potential thieving bastards--had made him nervous and he decided to fetch it before it got nicked.

The door to the study was open and he was about to walk in when he heard voices. Peering inside, he could just about make out a blonde woman standing sideways on and glaring at Olivier, her face partially illuminated by the light from the hallway.

“Why are you here, Nin?” Olivier asked. “Taking a few risks, aren’t you?”

“ _I’m_ taking risks? What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she said angrily. “You’re supposed to be in hiding. They think you’re _dead_ , for fuck’s sake. What the hell are you doing throwing a fucking Christmas party after all the trouble we’ve taken to set this up? Fucking hell, Athos.”

Porthos stumbled away, hiding himself in the relative safety of the deserted gallery, and watching the study from the doorway, trying desperately to ignore the heaving of his stomach. It wasn’t possible. It was a mistake. He’d misheard. Olivier de la Fère wasn’t Athos. He couldn't be Athos de Winter.


	15. Chapter 15

Keeping a cool head, Porthos watched Olivier take the woman by the arm and lead her through into the kitchen. This couldn’t be happening. He tried to recall every picture of Athos de Winter from the days when he’d been constantly in the news, and was finding it hard to conflate the image he had of that bastard with his own Olivier.

Retrieving his phone from the study, he searched Google, and, to his utter misery, found that it was impossible to deny that the floppy haired, stubble faced Athos was Olivier de la Fère. There was no speck of doubt.

Trudging upstairs at funeral pace, Porthos was amazed at how life could change in an instant. Ten minutes ago he was the happiest he’d ever been. Now he was sitting on the bed, waiting for judgement to be served: Porthos du Vallon, because of your willful disregard for the evidence before you, you will live out the rest of your days a lonely and unhappy man.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” said Olivier, breezing into the bedroom and shutting the door behind him. “Something came up.”

“I know,” said Porthos in a cold, unrecognisable voice. “I left my phone in the study.”

Olivier stared at him, eyes wide and full of apprehension, and when Porthos showed him an image on the screen, of him, of Athos, that filthy, fucking bastard, he looked away and remained silent.

“You’re Athos de Winter.”

“I’m Olivier de la Fère, but you’re right.” Anxiety gone, the man was cool to the point of cold. “I _was_ known as Athos de Winter.”

“Then you’re scum,” said Porthos, the anger building, objectivity long gone. “You're a heartless wanker and filth like you are the reason so many of my friends are dead. The reason I wasted ten years of my life in a drug addicted mess. Monsters like you prey on kids and destroy them, just to make some fucking money. You're a cruel piece of shit.” He stopped, realising that he’d revealed far more about himself than he’d ever intended to. “That’s my secret, Olivier. I thought it was bad. Yours is much worse.”

Four years ago Athos and Milady de Winter were the darlings of Fleet Street. He was an acclaimed foreign correspondent, living a dangerous existence, reporting from all the trouble spots of the world. She was youngest woman ever to be made editor of a national newspaper. They were, rather ironically, flying at their highest when there was an exposé on Athos, pictures revealing him sleeping with rent boys, their tell all stories of coke fuelled parties published in all the major papers, alongside evidence that, whilst working in Afghanistan, he’d set up a profitable sideline as a drugs dealer.

“You have _nothing_ to say to me?” said Porthos, crawling with sickness, furious that he’d let a thing like that get close to him.

“Why should I bother when you’ve already made up your mind?” said Olivier. “But can I please ask you not to reveal my identity to anyone?”

“Why would I do that for you?”

“People may get hurt.” The words were guarded.

“People are hurting, _Athos_.” Porthos raised his voice and Olivier looked over his shoulder. “People will still be hurting because of what you’ve done.”

“Have you finished?” said Olivier. “Because if you have then I suggest you go.” Strength abandoning him, he leant against the wall. “Get out of here. Do whatever you want.”

Porthos couldn’t wait to do just that. Churning up inside, he was almost at his car when Constance caught up to him in a panic. “Why are you going home, my love? The party’s only just getting started.”

Porthos laughed bitterly. “The party’s over. At least it is for me and him.” He couldn’t bear to give _him_ a name. Ironic, seeing as not so long ago it had been all that he’d wanted. “Nothing you can do, Constance. Don’t try to fix it.”

“What about the booze?” she said. “What if he-?”

“I don’t give a fuck,” interrupted Porthos. “The best thing that can happen is if he drinks himself to death.”

“You don’t mean that,” said Constance full of dismay.

“Oh, yes I do.” Porthos climbed into his car and started the engine. "I’ll talk to you later.” Later, when he wasn’t dying of misery.

Bitter tears rolled down his face as he drove home and, swiping them away with the back of a hand, he had a close call with a tree. He should have hit it, should’ve rolled through the windscreen and crashed lifeless into the ditch, where, hours later, someone would have found his broken body.

He wasn’t so lucky and let himself in the front door of the cottage, planning on falling into bed and going straight to sleep, but, instead, sitting up for hours on end, reading everything there was to know about the notorious Athos de Winter. The last thing he looked at were the pictures that had been posted as part of the exposé of Olivier, of _Athos_ in bed with a series of young male prostitutes. He’d seen enough people coked out of their brain and he’d also seen Olivier, drunk and hopeless. The bleary eyed man in the photographs was a sight he was personally familiar with.

Heartbroken and angry, Porthos fell asleep, laptop still on the bed, thinking about Athos de Winter and his many sins. He woke up, emotionally feverish, his head full of that blow job which he’d thought was the start of something new.

Heartsick turning physical, he ran to the bathroom and puked into the toilet, bile and venom coming away from him, leaving him empty and shivering on the floor, clutching his knees.

“Hangover?” said Aramis, poking a concerned head around the bathroom door.

“Yeah. Sort of.” Porthos let Aramis help him to his feet, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders as he leant over the sink and swilled away the taste of the vomit with a mouthful of water.

“Strange, seeing as I didn’t notice you have a drink all night,” said Aramis, aiming a knowing look his way as he tucked the blanket tightly around him. “Now let’s get you downstairs. You and I need a day of junk food and rubbish on the box.”

“What about d’Artagnan?” asked Porthos, letting himself be led into the bedroom where Aramis sat him down, dressed him as if he were a child and then directed him downstairs.

“He’s having the usual Sunday roast with his mum, so she she can quiz him about all the nice girls he’s met recently.” Aramis put the kettle on and began to make toast. “It’s much easier for us. We never have to explain anything to anyone.”

“What?” said Porthos weakly.

“Boys, girls, whatever.” Aramis grinned at him. “As long as they’re pretty.”

“Um, yeah. I guess.” Porthos frowned. He didn't remember having this conversation. Had he got up last night, and sleep walked to the nearest bar with Aramis for a heart to heart? 

“Marmalade or Marmite?”

The conversation was seguing wildly, and Porthos was struggling to keep up. “Marmalade.” He needed the sugar to stay focused.

Aramis arrived in the living room with a tray piled high with toast, biscuits and mugs of coffee then plonked it down on the table in front of them.

“How did you know I was bi?” asked Porthos.

Aramis smiled at him. “Lots of ways. You were furious when I called you a homophobe -- sorry again, by the way. You didn’t even blink when I suggested a threesome with me and d’Artagnan.” He picked up a piece of toast, dunking it into his coffee, and Porthos cringed at the thought of soggy jam. “But mostly, because you’re madly in love with the Comte de la Fère, as he is with you.”

Pulling the blanket around him, Porthos felt sick all over again and laid his head on the arm of the sofa. “Not anymore. He’s not who I thought he was.”

“But Porthos.” Aramis sat next to him and rested a comforting hand on his arm. “He makes you happy. You make each other happy. You’ve been over the moon for weeks now. I’m surprised it took me so long to see it. You can barely take your eyes off each other.”

“I made a mistake,” said Porthos, reaching for the telly remote and checking the guide. “There’s Arsenal v City on Sky Sports later.” 

The endless Christmas adverts on the sports news channel sent him into a slow spiral of despair. With five days to go, he knew it was only going to get worse, and he mentally barricaded himself behind shutters, not wanting anyone to see how close he was to falling apart.

Constance was going home to see her family for the holidays. D’Artagnan was spending time with his mum and Aramis would undoubtedly be off to visit his parents, who'd lived in Spain for many years. For the first time in his life Porthos had been looking forward to Christmas: drinks in the pub followed by midnight mass at the church--if Father Duvall remembered to turn up--then off to see Olivier at the Manor. Now he’d have to hole up for a week and get drunk off his arse in solitude.

“When are you leaving for Madrid?” he asked.

“Not until the third,” said Aramis. “The parents like me to be home for Fiesta de los tres Reyes Mages, but Treville got massively pissed off last year when I was away for three whole weeks.”

“Don’t feel like you have to stay here because of me,” said Porthos bravely, despite the fact he was very glad to hear the news.

“You know it’s all about me,” said Aramis with a grin. “While I'm at her mercy, my mother will spend half the time trying to marry me off to my hirsute second cousin, Ana Sofia, and the other half dragging me to church.”

Porthos almost raised a smile at the thought of Aramis being chased around the olive groves by a hairy Spanish girl, and he reached out to pat his friend on the shoulder. “Well as long as I’m doing you a service, buddy,” he said, settling down to watch the prelims of the football.

After three solid days of television watching, Porthos had reached his tolerance level for jolly Christmas movies, and if he had to hear any more crap about angels getting their wings then he would go mental for sure. 

The weather was drab, dismal and generally shit, and there wasn’t anything to focus on that would take his mind off his troubles. Treville had closed up the office and left for Harrogate days ago, and Porthos had no idea in which direction to take his campaign, in order to try and save the recreation ground. With the holiday season upon them, local support had dwindled and he hadn’t a clue how to revive it. Hopefully something would come to him when he wasn’t feeling quite so raw.

He thought about braving town, but in the end decided that he just wasn’t ready. Not that there was a snowball’s chance in hell he’d bump into Olivier in the High Street, but he’d still have to talk to people, and the thought of downing pints of beer in the pub whilst making polite conversation was frankly horrific. He was a bit unstable at the moment. He might embarrass everyone and burst into tears, and he'd already decided to save that fiasco for Christmas Eve.

Aramis was doing his best to keep Porthos occupied, but with a boyfriend _and_ a girlfriend on the go, a lot of his time was taken up flitting between the two of them. He was also making a concerted effort to keep his hectic lovelife on the downlow, so as not to cause upset, 'though the idea of having a happy couple in the house--even if that’s not how Aramis and d'Artagnan saw themselves--could only brighten things up, as far as Porthos was concerned.

“You _can_ bring the kid here, you know,” he said as Aramis was off out for the evening. “I won’t fall apart. Just don’t tell him anything about Olivier and me.”

“Of course I won’t.” Aramis cheered up no end. “That’s a relief. I’m well past doing it standing up in bus shelters.”

“Which is ironic, considering he’s only just old enough,” sniggered Porthos.

“Funny, my friend, really funny.” Aramis slapped him on the back. “I’ll invite him back tonight and we’ll try not to make too much of a racket.”

“Not possible,” said Porthos in a gruff voice. “I know every single one of your sex noises by now.”

“And if you’d join us in bed then you’d be able to link them to specific activities.” Porthos’ face must have dropped a mile, because Aramis was immediately repentant. “I’m sorry,” he said mournfully. “My mouth needs to learn when to shut up.”

“No worries, bud,” said Porthos, but he was mightily relieved when the door slammed shut. When was he going to stop feeling so wounded over this? Just one mention of sex and he was back at the Manor, reliving every fleeting encounter with Olivier. 

Later, after he’d opened a tin of tomato soup for dinner and was just finishing the washing up, there was a knock at the door. 

“I came to drop off your prezzies,” said Constance, brushing the raindrops off her face and hanging her coat over the back of a chair. “I’m catching the train tomorrow morning.”

Porthos had got some things for her under the tree, which Aramis had wrapped for him when he was doing his own presents. The watch still sat in his drawer: a ticking reminder of the destructive nature of relationships.

“How long are you away for?” he asked as they exchanged bags.

“Just a few days,” she said. “I’m back before New Year. People might want to spend their Christmas money on vintage clothes.”

“Do you want a cuppa?” said Porthos.

“Can’t stop,” said Constance. “Other places to be.” She gave him a pointed look. “Olivier’s okay, by the way. He’s quiet, but he's still giving me riding lessons.”

Porthos shrugged. He had nothing to say on the subject.

“He’ll be spending Christmas all alone up there,” said Constance. “If that doesn’t drive him to drink then I don’t know what will.”

“Couldn’t give a fuck,” said Porthos, shrugging again.

“Do I even know you?” Constance glared at him.

“No,” said Porthos. “You don’t know me and you don’t know him. We’re not the cute couple you want us to be. We’re real and we’re ugly and we’re _not_ worth it.” They were her own words from a few days ago that he was using against her, and he felt like shit for doing it.

“I see. Well, thanks for the present,” she said, putting on her coat and picking up the gift bag, then leaving the cottage before Porthos had time to apologise.

In less than a minute, he’d trampled all over a new friendship which had meant everything to him, and after locking the doors and switching off the lights, he climbed the stairs, intending to hide from the world under his duvet for a month or two at least. 

Christmas Eve dawned as glum as ever. By the time Porthos crawled out of bed, Aramis was already bouncing off the walls, and he wondered if there was such a thing as a Yuletide hyper attack.

It was a relief when d’Artagnan emerged, sleepy and serene after a long night of sex, sitting down quietly to sip at his coffee and counteract the Feliz Navidad that was being sung loudly in the kitchen.

“It’s good that he doesn’t have any bad memories,” said d’Artagnan, looking fondly over his shoulder at the man.

Porthos wasn’t so sure. He’d decided a while ago that Aramis was the master of playing pretend, which was the main reason his love life was always in such a muddle. He doubted, however, that his friend had any serious issues with Christmas. He was too bloody excitable for that.

“Eggs, bacon and maple syrup on pancakes,” said Aramis, handing out plates.

“I was expecting something Spanish to match the music,” said d'Artagnan. A bread roll was lobbed across the room, and, showing off his fielding skills, he caught it neatly. 

“Spanish breakfast as requested,” laughed Aramis.

After they'd finished eating, Porthos was nagged into leaving the house to help get supplies in from the supermarket, and as the two men physically bundled him into his coat, wrapping a scarf around his neck, the unquestioning support from them left him feeling able to cope for the first time since the break up.

Despite the constant flow of drizzle, the town still looked beautiful, lights twinkling in every window and strung from building to building in a sparkling cascade. Porthos was surprised at how often he was overwhelmed by his love for Howerton, the simple sleepiness of the place a vivid contrast to the high octane lifestyle of London.

“I have a list,” said Aramis, consulting the scrap of paper from his pocket as they walked into a supermarket which was bulging with people, all managing to sneak in at the last minute before the shop closed its doors for the next couple of days. “We’re going to the pub for Christmas dinner tomorrow. So, it’s just snacks, booze and something for Boxing Day. Oh and some fags.”

This time, it wasn’t the chink of bottles that alerted Porthos to Olivier’s presence, but some primal instinct that made him look over his shoulder at the tills. Half glancing in Porthos’ direction, the man then stared at the conveyor, bagging up his few items of food as quickly as possible, then paying and getting the hell out of there without saying a word to anyone.

Aramis squeezed his arm in support. “Come and pick out some champagne. I know nothing about the stuff other than it’s fizzy.”

“And you think I do?” Porthos looked at him incredulously, but then he turned to the window, because something was kicking off in the street and he didn’t like the sound of it one bit.

“I knew I fucking recognised you.”

Leaving the others to finish the shopping, Porthos ran outside to discover Martin Labarge landing a brutal punch to Olivier’s temple. 

Stunned for a second, Olivier then charged at Labarge, fist driving into his guts, knee _almost_ making contact with his groin until the man twisted away at the last second and barrelled into Olivier, using all his weight advantage to force him backwards. Tripping over the kerbstone, he fell into the road with Labarge landing heavily on top of him.

“You’re gonna wish you’d stayed dead, you fucker,” Labarge sneered, his fist crashing into Olivier’s face. “They know where you are,” he taunted in a sing song voice.

Porthos looked to his left, confused to see the policeman watching the fight from a distance. “Rochefort!” he yelled, but the man ignored him. “Fuck this,” he muttered, grabbing Labarge by his arms and dragging him away from Olivier. “Wanna pick on someone your own size?” he growled, holding him in restraint.

“Oh, please, allow me,” said Aramis, putting his carrier bag down and then punching Labarge’s already bloody nose with a strike that was far more forceful than one would expect from an artist.

“My turn,” said d’Artagnan, landing another blow to the man’s guts.

“Enough’s enough, boys,” said Rochefort, finally appearing on the scene too late to help, as Olivier climbed unsteadily to his feet. “Let Mr Labarge go, Porthos.”

“Let him go?” snarled Porthos, his hackles rising. “Did you not see what he bloody did?”

“I saw a bit of a scrap,” said Rochefort amiably. “I decided to step in as soon as it became one sided.”

“You what!” said Porthos. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Rochefort stared at him. “If either Mr Labarge or the Comte wish to take matters further, then we’ll go along to the station where we can continue this discussion in private.”

Shaking his head, Olivier gathered his shopping from the floor and hurried away. 

Labarge watched him go, those beady eyes fixed on his departing back. “I’m sure we can sort out our problems without bothering you, sergeant,” he said in a casual manner and with a final glare at the others he strode off to his motorbike.

Torn three ways: wanting to find out what the hell Rochefort was playing at, to beat the fuck out of Labarge and to see if Olivier was okay, Porthos chose the latter, following the man back to his car, with d'Artagnan and Aramis close on his tail.

Olivier's hands were clutching the steering wheel, his forehead resting against them. When Porthos opened the car door to speak to him he looked up, and his eyes were full of fear.

Porthos’ stomach churned. Despite everything, he hated seeing him battered and bleeding. He was also worried that Olivier must think the worst of him. "I didn't tell him," he stated urgently, keeping his voice low in volume.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" asked d'Artagnan, pushing in next to Porthos and then glaring at Aramis as he intervened and dragged him clear of the car.

"I haven't said anything to anyone," repeated Porthos in an undertone and for some reason it was vital to him that he was believed.

"Stay away from me," said Olivier and, splaying a hand against Porthos' chest, he shoved him out of the car, slammed the door shut and drove away, leaving the three men to walk back to the cottage in silence.

"Porthos, what the fuck is going on?" said Aramis once they were indoors and d'Artagnan was making the tea.

"I wish I could tell you," said Porthos, his head in his hands. It wasn't a lie. He knew nothing, except for a name with a very ugly past attached to it. They know where you are, Labarge had said. Who were they? Richelieu of course, but who else?

Opening his laptop, he began some investigations into Athos’ early life, making sure that neither Aramis nor d'Artagnan could see what he was researching. If he didn't do this then he’d spend all bloody day thinking of Olivier, alone and hurt, up at the Manor.

Unsurprisingly, Athos de Winter had no evidence of a childhood. He appeared in England when he was eighteen, went to Cambridge on a scholarship to read English and supported his brother, Thomas, until he joined the army and was killed five years ago in a terrorist incident in Sudan. Not the past Porthos was expecting to read about. A career as a journalist could easily have lent itself to a life of drug taking and dealing, but sad little boy, naïve young man, altruistic brother? None of these parts equalled the sum.

"Stop working and have a gingerbread star," said Aramis, waving a plate under his nose. "I made them myself this morning from a Nigella recipe."

"Why would Labarge have something against Olivier?" asked d'Artagnan, as he carried mugs of tea through from the kitchen.

"Because he didn't get invited to the party? Because he crashed into his motorbike when he was drunk? Who knows?" said Aramis, his arms outstretched in an exaggerated shrug. "It's Christmas, people. Let's get into the spirit of it."

Porthos was pretty sure the only thing that could make that happen would be large _amounts_ of spirit. "I vote for alcohol," he said, but when Aramis grinned and produced a bottle of Macallan from the cupboard, he had a feeling it wasn’t going to improve his mood.


	16. Chapter 16

In the evening they went to the pub for a few pints, but no one was in the mood for a raucous night out, and by eleven they were back watching dreaded holiday films on the telly. Porthos stayed up to see the big day arrive, but went to bed minutes after midnight, leaving Aramis and d'Artagnan to cuddle on the sofa and enjoy their first Christmas together. They'd tried to persuade him to finish the bottle of whisky with them, but the more he drank, the more the memories came flooding back: bad ones, good ones, all the same to him now.

It was colder than usual when he woke up and he pulled the quilt around him, doing his best to ignore the immediate drop in mood and pangs of loneliness which were becoming a bad habit.

Waiting for dawn to arrive, he got up as soon as it was light enough to see then, throwing on a pair of jeans and a warm jumper, he took the battered box out of the drawer and stared at it, wanting to forgive Olivier, to give him a chance to tell his side of the story.

Not bothering with his regulation cup of coffee, he drove up a deserted High Street, passing a few illuminated houses and imagining the rooms filled with happy children, tearing wrapping paper off their presents.

The country lanes were equally as silent, but as he turned into the driveway of the Manor the kitchen light was a beacon and, pulling up outside, the cowardly part of him hoped that Olivier was already out riding for the day. Now that he was close, he could see the light was also on in the stable block and, lowering the window, he could hear movement accompanied by quiet words.

The vintage watch sat on the passenger seat -- an anachronism in its shiny red gift bag. Porthos looked at it and then at the stables, which were no more than thirty feet away, but the distance between them may as well have been a thousand miles. He waited, hoping the feelings of betrayal and anger would dissipate, but when Olivier finally emerged, black eye and split lip plain to see, there was no light bulb flash of forgiveness and, after some soul searching and a lengthy stare, Porthos drove the lonely route home.

From that moment onwards, Christmas collapsed into a blur. He felt bad for drinking himself into a twelve day stupor, but it was the only way to survive the carolling, wassail and endless cheerfulness of Howerton. The year ended on the stroke of midnight with a pillowy soft kiss from Alice, mouths opening, tongues pressing together, as the church bells rang out to celebrate the future. 

“That was lovely.” She smiled up at him. “But I think I’m right in saying that neither of us are ready for more.”

Porthos knew she was making sense, but she was so sweet and easygoing, even with a divorce happening, that he wanted nothing more than to take her to bed and make uncomplicated love to her. He crushed her in his arms, not quite ready to sacrifice the moment. Perhaps it was partly the effects of too much alcohol, but she dulled the pain and tempered his loneliness. “You’re right,” he admitted and then he grinned. “Neither of us are ready... _yet_.”

Sharing a few more kisses, they parted company at the pub door where Porthos bumped into Aramis, who was trying to cope with a very pissed d’Artagnan.

“Is he old enough to drink?” laughed Porthos.

“And still so very funny.” Aramis nudged him with a sharp elbow, and in doing so, almost lost his grip on the kid.

“It’s hardly my fault you’re a cradle snatcher,” said Porthos, rubbing his ribcage.

“So, you and Alice, eh?” said Aramis as they walked slowly home, with d’Artagnan propped between them.

“Not quite,” said Porthos, “but there’s a distinct _possibility_ of me and Alice and I like the idea a lot.”

“Although you’re not over the moon,” Aramis observed.

“No, but I’m happy,” said Porthos, which was far more pleasant than the chaotic existence he’d been leading for the past few months. “Remind me to talk to Constance,” he added. She’d been glaring at him from across the pub for most of the night and he didn’t think a few ill thought out phrases, at a low point in his life, should merit that much animosity.

“Talk to Constance,” sniggered Aramis as he struggled to open the door with a limpet clinging affectionately to his shoulder.

“Ta very much, mate,” said Porthos with a roll of the eyes. “You’re such a help. You get sleeping beauty up the stairs and I’ll bring him some water and painkillers.”

Nodding his thanks, Aramis lugged d’Artagnan to bed and Porthos followed on afterwards with the hangover remedies. It couldn’t remind him of Olivier, because it turned out that there was no such person.

*

He had no idea what brought it on--maybe it was that kiss from Alice, or the start of a brand new year--but, for some reason, Porthos woke up to January feeling newly motivated, his brain overflowing with inspiration. There should have been a public consultation over the sale of the recreation ground and there hadn’t been one, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t organise a retrospective meeting to give the townspeople a chance to have their say.

He didn’t have a clue about the ways and means of local politics, but he knew a girl who would and, glancing at his watch, he sat crushed in the tiny front window seat, on the look out for the return of Dolly, whose owner would no doubt be practicing her cantering around the paddock about now.

Finally, Porthos saw the little Renault whizz up the street, pulling into a parking spot near Voguette and, grabbing his coat, he ran out to meet Constance.

She was thoroughly mud spattered and in such a world of her own that she didn’t even notice him walking alongside her for the first minute or two.

“Happy New Year,” he said eventually, and when she turned to look at him it was without the usual glint of pleasure in her eyes at seeing a friend. “I’m sorry for what I said before Christmas,” he continued. “Will you forgive me?”

“That depends,” she said coolly. “Have you done anything else I need to forgive you for?”

He followed her down the narrow stone passageway until she stopped at the side entrance to her flat, where there was no invitation from her with either words or eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asked, utterly confused.

She folded her arms. “Did you hit Olivier?”

Porthos slammed backwards as if he was the one who’d been punched, impacting painfully with the wall behind him. Horror stricken, he stared at her. “Of course I didn’t. Did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t tell me anything.” Constance frowned, her forehead wrinkling in frustration. “Well, he lied and said he’d fallen off Roger, but it looks to me as if he’s been beaten up.”

“So, you assumed it must be me,” said Porthos, hurt beyond belief.

“You told me you wished he was dead. What was I _supposed_ to think?”

Tears stung his eyes. He had said that and he honestly couldn't blame Constance for thinking the worst. Words were powerful and should be used with care. “But I’d never...” he said, his voice cracking, a fracture away from crying, and Constance's icy demeanour thawed. 

“Come in," she said, leading the way up the narrow flight of stairs to her flat. “I'm sorry, Porthos. I shouldn't have accused you of something so horrible, but I'm worried. I wish he’d trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

Porthos followed, trying to get a grip on his runaway emotions. “It was Labarge,” he said as he sat down at the tiny breakfast bar. “They had a punch up in town on Christmas Eve, but I have no idea what it was about.”

“Hmm,” said Constance, looking increasingly worried. “That bastard’s done a proper number on him. I’m pretty sure Olivier’s got a cracked rib, ‘though he won’t go to the hospital to get it checked out.”

“So, what do we do?” said Porthos.

“Nothing,” said Constance, switching the kettle on. “You can’t help someone unless they’re willing to be helped.”

It was by far the truest thing Porthos had ever heard, ‘though it didn’t do much to put his mind at rest. He’d been digging around a little and he couldn't find a connection between Athos de Winter and Armand Richelieu, so, until Olivier was prepared to sit down and explain and he was prepared to sit down and listen, they were at an impasse. At the moment he swerved, all too often, between love, hate, concern and indifference.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked as Constance passed him a mug of tea.

“You are,” she said, but then she fixed him with a stern look. “Providing you don’t mess Alice about. She’s a good friend of mine and she has no idea about what went on between you and Olivier.” She paused. “Don’t be like Aramis. I love him to pieces, but he’s a little shit.”

“Olivier and I are over,” said Porthos firmly. “And Alice and I like each other, but we’re taking it slowly.” He spelt it out plainly, as much for himself as for Constance. “Now can we talk about something more interesting than my damp squib of a love life?”

“Don’t knock it,” said Constance with a rueful smile. “A damp squib is better than no squib at all. Now what did you want to talk about? I haven’t got long because I'm going out to look at horses.” She brightened considerably. “Mum and Dad gave me some money for Christmas.”

“And Olivier’s helping you?”

“Of course he is,” said Constance. “And he’s letting me stable it at the Manor so there won’t be any livery fees.”

“Did he have a choice?” grinned Porthos.

“Well, he tried really hard to push me away, but I wasn't having any of it, so now he’s being as sweet as always.”

Porthos’ heart sank. It wasn't fair that only he was burdened with knowing the truth about the man. “I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I was just wondering if you’d know who to talk about setting up a meeting in the Town Hall. They’ll start construction on the retirement village as soon as spring is here, so we don’t have long to show Bourbon the strength of opposition.”

“There’s my Porthos,” said Constance with a smile. “I knew you were only hiding.” She picked up her mug and took a sip. “The Town Hall is for public use and as far as I know you just need to book the auditorium in advance. The chair of the council pops in regularly, so I’ll check with her and get back to you.”

*

Back on track, now that Christmas had been tidied away for the next eleven months, the people of Howerton were only too pleased to get involved with Porthos’ relaunch of the Save the Rec campaign. There was a huge level of support for the idea. A date had been set and Bourbon, whilst not attending himself, had agreed to send a delegation from his company to listen to any complaints.

It was the final Sunday before the meeting, and Porthos was trying to convince himself he was hosting an action group, which actually consisted of D’Artagnan, who was half asleep, Constance, who was day dreaming about horses and Aramis, who was away with the fairies.

“Look, I need you lot to help me out,” growled Porthos. “At least pretend to listen. I've never chaired something like this before.”

Winter had set in again and snow was beginning to fall from a leaden sky. “Do you think Shandy’ll be okay?” said Constance. “He and Roger were out in the paddock this morning.”

“There’s someone at the Manor who looks after horses far better than he does people,” said Porthos with a stern look. “Now we haven’t had a response from Richelieu yet. I’ll email his constituency office and, if that fails, I’ll give them a ring.”

“Yep,” said Aramis.

“Anything we might have forgotten?” said Porthos.

“Nope,” said Aramis, gazing vacantly at the fire.

“I have to go.” D’Artagnan jumped up suddenly after reading a text. “Mum’s cooking lunch.”

“I’m off too,” said Constance. “We’re going out hacking this afternoon before the weather sets in, so I need to make sure Shandy’s ready.

“Thanks a bunch,” said Porthos, flicking an impolite finger at the two departing backs. “I suppose you've got some brilliant excuse too,” he muttered at Aramis, who hadn't even bothered to say goodbye to d’Artagnan.

“Huh?” Aramis scraped a hand through his hair and looked at Porthos with a troubled expression on his face.

“You haven’t got a clue what’s going on, mate,” said Porthos. “You’ve been like it all week. Now are you gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”

“Oh, god.” Aramis flung himself back in the chair. “I don't know what to do.”

“And I can’t help you unless you tell me,” said Porthos. He honestly didn't mind dealing with Aramis and his love life. It would be better than trying to understand what was going on in his own fucked up heart.

“Anne’s pregnant and she thinks I'm the father,” said Aramis. 

“Bloody hell, that’s a biggie,” said Porthos with a grimace. “She thinks, or she’s sure?” 

“She and Louis have been trying for a baby for years and nothing’s ever happened, so she’s ninety nine percent certain it’s mine.”

“Makes sense,” said Porthos. “And how do you feel about it?”

Aramis looked at him with sad eyes. “I've asked her to leave Louis and be with me. She's thinking about it, so I should be overjoyed and I adore her. But…”

“But you’re not happy.”

“Not at all,” said Aramis. “And I don’t know why. Maybe I'm not ready to be a father.”

“Come with me,” said Porthos and, grabbing Aramis by the arm, he led him out of the back door and down through the garden, which was being transformed minute by minute into a wonderland. “Look,” he said, taking Aramis into his studio and pointing to the prints, hanging on the wall, of his two latest paintings.

“I know these,” said Aramis, with a sideways glance at Porthos. “I painted them.”

“Just look at them.”

Perhaps Aramis was too close to the subject matter, and would never be able to understand what Porthos saw. Anne was an ethereal being, something magical and unattainable. D’Artagnan, on the other hand, was alive and bright, vibrant with sex and lust and fun.

Aramis stared at the pictures and shook his head. “I don’t get it, my friend.”

Porthos sighed. “The problem is that you and he are so obsessed with this romantic idea of love that neither of you can see what’s in front of you. Constance once told me that love wasn't a fairy tale and she’s right.”

“I hope you make more sense at the meeting,” said Aramis moodily.

“Think about it,” said Porthos. “D’Artagnan’s dreaming about the Beast up at the Manor, and you’re mooning over Rapunzel in her tower. Well, guess what, buddy? That tower’s just come crashing down and you’ve got a pregnant princess in your arms.”


	17. Chapter 17

Bloody hell! The auditorium in the Town Hall was getting fuller by the second. Nerves jangling, Porthos looked around him, wondering if he was going to dry up completely. He’d done a few presentations at uni, but never to the masses like this.

Whilst Constance was setting up a screen for the slideshows, the ever increasing crowd were milling around the refreshment tables at the back. Bourbon’s team of management and liaison specialists were already seated on the platform, a line of grey suited yes men, and Porthos was thinking about bring the meeting to a start, when in walked the Right Hon Richelieu with Labarge, as always, at his shoulder.

“Mr du Vallon,” said Richelieu. “How good of you to become so involved in our little town so soon after moving here.”

“The sale of the recreation ground was brought to my attention the day I got here and I was hardly likely to avoid it,” said Porthos, trying not to look directly into the man’s snake eyes. “Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn't miss it, dear boy.” Richelieu looked around the room. “And is the Comte de la Fère not attending? I was certain he would be, seeing as he’s such an important landowner around here.”

Porthos could've done with Olivier and his Paxmanesque qualities by his side, but that was never going to happen. “He’s busy,” he said, glaring at Labarge.

“A pity that,” said Richelieu. “I would have loved to have met him again.”

“I thought you’d never been introduced.” Porthos raised his eyebrows.

“Ah, my use of language is dreadful. I'm always getting hauled over the coals for it in parliament,” smiled Richelieu. “I meant to say: once again, I would have loved to have met him.”

Porthos didn't enjoy the feeling that he was the starter on Richelieu’s own personal menu.

“Perhaps we should take our places so you can call the meeting to order,” continued the man. “I don’t have all night.”

An hour and a half later Porthos was sitting pretty, smiling broadly at everyone from his elevated seat on the rostrum. 

D’Artagnan’s opening sortie in defence of the cricket club, accompanied by shots of the junior tournament, had rallied everyone in the hall. Constance and Remi had spoken at length about the devastating effect the loss of the recreation ground would have on local business who relied upon the traditional fairs and farmers’ markets to bring in custom. After that, Porthos’ own presentation about other rural communities that had struggled to cope with a sudden influx of residents had been an eye opener to all.

In contrast, Bourbon’s team of specialists had little to bring to the table, countering only with the argument that the surge in population would bring about a marked increase in trade.

After a closing speech by Remi on behalf of the Winter Finding committee, which included a loud round of applause for the absent Comte de la Fère, Porthos knew that they'd won the debate hands down, and he was about to open the room to questions when Richelieu stood up unexpectedly. 

“If I may have the floor for a moment, Mr du Vallon,” he said and turning to Constance he passed her a flashpen to install on the laptop. “I have my own slideshow to put on,” he said with a sly look at Porthos.

An ancient document loomed large on the screen. “This,” said Richelieu, “is the earliest registry of Howerton and its surrounding villages, showing the extent of the lands belonging to the Manor. All of them as you can see.”

"How long is he going to bore us for today?" said Aramis, yawning theatrically.

Glaring at Aramis, Richelieu clicked through the images. “Moving up the centuries you can see that most of the land is either being sold off or redistributed, until we get to the nineteenth.” He zipped through the shots. “Where there are little if any changes at all.”

“Do you have a point, Minister?” heckled Remi. “It'll be closing time in a few hours.”

“I do indeed, landlord,” said Richelieu. “The recreation ground has been part of the Manor estate for hundreds of years.” He zoomed in on a recent entry. “Up until the year your generous benefactor, the Comte de la Fère, bought the house when all the land inside the town was mysteriously sold off. Presumably to Bourbon Developments.” There was a rumble of disapproval around the auditorium. “Look closely, if you wish,” said Richelieu. “I have copies here if you’d like to see them. Mr Labarge, if you would be so kind.”

Labarge picked up a portfolio case from the floor and took it to one of the free tables at the side, where he began laying out the documents and, whilst he was busy doing that, Richelieu approached Porthos, full of condescension. “This will have little relevance in changing the outcome of this matter, seeing as planning consent has been legally granted, but perhaps, in future, you should have a word with your _friend_ before you embark on any further testosterone heavy, power plays.”

Never mind the rules of the game, Porthos wished someone would tell him what the game actually was.

“You look upset, my dear boy.” Richelieu patted him on the arm.

“I don’t understand what you think you’re achieving,” said Porthos. “Other than pissing off your own constituents.”

“They need to know the truth, Porthos. The truth is important to us all.” Richelieu steepled his hands in a messianic Tony Blair way. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I must be off.”

Utterly disillusioned, Porthos walked to the back of the hall and picked up a glass of warm wine, swilling it down in a single gulp. “I have no idea what just happened,” he muttered to himself, watching that bastard Labarge follow Richelieu out of the auditorium.

“It's a lie. It must be,” said Constance, waking him out of his unhappy reverie. “Why would Olivier sell off the rec and then help us fight to get it back?”

Because he was a fork tongued piece of crap. “You don’t know him,” Porthos said grimly. She had no idea who she had befriended.

“I do,” she said stubbornly. “I know him and, more to the point, I like him.” Her eyes grew large. “And I'm not giving up on him even if you are.”

“I'm not bloody giving up on him.” Porthos was losing the tenuous grip on his temper.

“No,” she said angrily. “You _have_ given up on him. You believe every word Richelieu has to say, without even bothering to find out if it’s true. I had a look at his so called proof and it’s just maps to show how the land has been parcelled up and dates of sale. There’s nothing to say who owns what.”

“Blind faith isn't the greatest attribute for a journalist, Porthos.” Aramis slung an arm around his shoulder as he and d’Artagnan joined them in their huddle.

The truth was on the tip of Porthos’ tongue and he shook Aramis’ arm away roughly. Richelieu was employing the thumbscrews: needling him and discrediting Olivier. But why, when he clearly knew the man’s identity, didn't he reveal it to everyone?

“There’s more to this than you’re letting on, my friend.” Aramis wasn't about to be pushed away, physically or otherwise.

Porthos remained silent. If he hadn't been involved with Olivier in the past would he have let Richelieu trample the meeting unchallenged tonight?

“Well, I'm going to talk to him,” said Constance. “There’s no point in sitting here doing nothing.”

“Don’t,” said Porthos sullenly. 

“Why not?” asked d’Artagnan. “He’s got the right to tell us his side.”

“He insisted we stay away,” said Porthos, and, even to his own ears, it sounded like a lame excuse.

“Stop being so bloody awkward.” Constance frowned at him. “I’m there every day and I know that what he says and what he means are two entirely different things,” she said, and, picking up her bag and coat, she marched out of the hall.

“We’ll come back and tidy up tomorrow,” Aramis assured the caretaker who was glaring at them angrily as they followed a very irate Constance out of the building.

“Let’s take my car,” said Porthos when Constance stopped outside Dolly and took the keys out of her handbag. “At least we’ll all fit inside.”

The short journey was a tense affair, all four of them deep in thought. As it turned out they weren't the only visitors to the Manor that evening and, not expecting another car in the driveway, Porthos had a near miss with Richelieu’s Mercedes as it sped off down to the lane.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Aramis. “What would he be doing here when they don’t even know each other?”

Olivier was pacing up and down the paved area of the yard, talking urgently on the phone. Porthos had never seen him use a mobile all the time he’d known him.

“He knows we have nothing. No, it didn’t fucking work. Yes, okay.” He scribbled something on his hand with a biro. “I’m aware of that, Nin.” Realising for the first time he wasn't alone he stared at the four of them, a wary expression on his face, cutting off the call immediately. 

“Piss off.”

Olivier didn’t swear unless he was drunk, and Porthos could tell by looking at him that he hadn’t been at the booze. The man had a cutting tongue and an adept use of language, unsurprising seeing as he was a writer, and he could also wither most people with a single glare. He had no need for expletives.

“What was Richelieu doing here?” asked Porthos.

“Mind your own damn business,” said Olivier, heading for the kitchen, but Porthos was too quick and had his foot in the door before it could be slammed in his face. “How else can I help you?” said the man, regaining his composure and looking at Constance with a forced half smile. “Your horse is still fine.”

“It’s not about Shandy,” said Constance. “We organised a meeting today about the recreation ground, and Richelieu showed up with a flimsy bit of evidence to prove that you were the one who’d sold the land to Bourbon.”

Olivier’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “You’re actually serious.” He barked out a laugh--a cold and empty sound--and looked around at them all in disbelief. “No, I didn't sell anything to anyone. Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

“Not until we get some answers,” said Aramis, leaning against the door frame, his hand resting against the dark glossed woodwork.

“Why would Richelieu tell everyone that you did?” said Porthos, forcing the door further open and edging his way inside, the others following on behind.

“Seeing as you’ve barged your way in, how about a drink?” Searching in one of the cupboards Olivier took out an unopened bottle of scotch and poured a splash into five glasses, handing them around. “To life,” he said bitterly, raising his tumbler and placing it back down on the table without taking a sip.

“You’ve cut your hand,” said Aramis and, glancing over, Porthos noticed a jagged wound on Olivier’s palm. Using it as an excuse, he tried to memorise the telephone number that had been scribbled across the skin.

“I have indeed. Full marks for observation.” Catching him out, Olivier wrote the number onto the back of an envelope and stuck it in his pocket, rubbing the ink away with the pad of his thumb.

“It needs dressing,” said Aramis, taking a look. “Porthos get that first aid kit from your car.”

“Have I got one?”said Porthos.

“In the boot.”

There was a different atmosphere when Porthos walked back into the kitchen carrying the green plastic box. Olivier only had the ability to keep his defences raised for so long and was sitting at the table quiet and resigned, wincing as Aramis cleaned the cut before bandaging it.

“Looks like barbed wire.” Oliver nodded. “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?” continued Aramis and the man nodded again.

“So,” said Porthos, wanting to take advantage of the lull in tension. “Why did Richelieu tell everyone you’d sold the land?”

“He likes to play an unrefined game of cat and mouse,” said Olivier bitterly and he looked at Constance. “Find somewhere else to stable your horse. This was only ever temporary.” His eyes then flickered over the glass of scotch. “I should never have allowed anyone here.”

“I'm sorry,” said d’Artagnan, full of remorse, and Olivier looked at him, his expression becoming less resigned and more melancholy.

“It’s no one’s fault but my own.” Standing up, he tipped his drink into the sink and turned on the tap to wash away the whisky. “Look, I can’t help you with your recreation ground, or your horses, or your parties. I can’t help anyone. Just fuck off.”

He sounded so terribly exhausted and, once again, Porthos’ stomach twisted with fear. One by one the others filed out of the kitchen until he and Olivier were left alone, and unable to forget the few good times, Porthos placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, burying his face in that mop of hair.

Olivier instinctively leaned back into him and as Porthos curled an arm around his waist, nuzzling in and kissing his neck, Olivier shivered with pleasure then shifted sideways, dragging himself reluctantly away.

“You, of all people, ought to know better.” Pouring the whisky away he chucked the bottle in the bin and turned to look at Porthos. “Fuck,” he said in utter desperation, his undamaged hand wrapping around the back of his neck, defences all but shattered.

“I don’t give a shit about the past,” said Porthos and he meant it. “Let me help.” He reached out, his fingers kneading at Olivier’s hip, bodies close enough now that he could feel the warmth radiating from him.

Olivier’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “When there’s something you can do then I promise I’ll ask,” he said as they rested foreheads together. “Now go. Please.”

Lips skating across Olivier’s cheek, Porthos did as requested and left the Manor, worried, confused and as deeply infatuated as ever. Coming to a sudden stop, he spun around and stared back at the imposing building as if it could offer up some answers.

Aramis, who was sitting on the bonnet of the car finishing off a cigarette, gave him a look of understanding. “Life is never simple, my friend. Especially the things in it that are worth fighting for.”

Snow began to fall on their journey back to Howerton, but it didn’t spark off any excitement amongst the four of them. Dense flakes were spilling thick and fast and the roads were almost white by the time they reached the crest of a hill outside town, where d’Artagnan and his mother lived in a small housing estate.

“Don’t worry,” said Aramis, an arm wrapped around the kid’s shoulders as he kissed him goodbye. “Everything will be okay.”

As yet unaware of the other dark cloud that was hanging over him, d’Artagnan sighed. “If only I hadn't nagged Olivier into hosting that fucking tournament.”

“Don’t be daft,” said Constance, looking over at him from the front seat with an affectionate smile on her face. “Cricket isn't to blame for this. He’ll be fine, don’t you worry. I’ll make sure he is.”

In some ways Porthos was relieved to discover that his friends were as screwed up as he was. They’d gone to the Manor to interrogate Olivier and ended up rallying round him in support. In a war where the Comte de la Fère was battling the Right Honourable Richelieu, it was easy to pick sides. It wasn't, however, quite as easy to know exactly who one was siding with.

After dropping Constance off at Voguette, Porthos drove back up the High street and parked outside the cottage, sitting for a moment and contemplating the snowfall that was building in the crevices of the broken gate.

“Come on, Porthos,” said Aramis. “Time for some cocoa with those little marshmallows that you like so much.”

Porthos followed him silently into the cottage, making up the fire as Aramis hurried off to the kitchen. The hot chocolate came with a splash of brandy and Porthos sat on the couch, hands wrapped around his mug as he stared at the flames and imagined himself back in Olivier's study.

“So, let me guess. You’re all cozy with le Comte again?” said Aramis as they chilled out after the swings and roundabouts of the day.

“What?” Porthos was lost to his thoughts. “Hardly,” he added, processing Aramis’ words, but then he slumped into himself, resilience all but dead. “I don’t know, mate. How do me and him stand a chance with all this going on?”

“I’d be able to answer that better if I knew what ‘this’ was.”

“I’d tell you if I had a clue.” Porthos cocked his head to one side, remembering something strange from earlier. “Hey, you were pretty handy with that first aid kit.”

“I’m pretty handy at most things,” said Aramis with a grin that didn't quite meet his eyes. “I can’t believe you haven’t learned that by now.”


	18. Chapter 18

Porthos was rubbish at doing nothing, and, with very little work on the books, he spent a large part of the following fortnight hunting down title deeds, old and new, to see if he could discover who owned which tracts of land within the town. It shouldn’t be this difficult; it was a matter of public record so why was the information so impossible to get hold of? 

Having got precisely nowhere, Porthos visited the council offices, trudging through a foot of snow to get there. Aramis had told his friend Lilian to expect a visit, and, after a few shifty conversations with the staff at the reception counter, Porthos went up in the lift to the third floor to talk to his contact. It possibly wasn't as James Bond as he was imagining, but with so many strange goings on recently, it was better to be safe than sorry. 

“You and Aramis are the busiest people ever,” said Lilian, looking up at him with an engaging smile. “Always after me for something.”

Porthos had a feeling he knew what Aramis was generally after her for. “There’s a lot of boring stuff we have to get through,” he said. “Journalism isn't the glamorous experience people make out.”

“So, what ‘boring stuff’ do you want me to tell you?” she asked with a smile.

“Nothing major. I just need to know the last few owners of all the undeveloped land within the town borders,” said Porthos.

“Easy.” Lilian frowned as she searched the records. “Hang on though, this is very strange,” she said, looking up at Porthos. “All the information seems to be missing."

Frustrated, Porthos was about to give up when something Olivier had said months ago came back to him: Find out who owns the land _next_ to the rec. The subject had been brought up entirely innocently, a case of seeing whether the owner had received notification about a planning application, but Porthos had a feeling it may be relevant for entirely different reasons. 

"How about the land on the far side of the recreation ground?" he said.

“I'll see if that's there,” said Lilian, entering some more details into her computer. “Yes, here we are. Everything on the northern boundaries of the town is owned by Mr Richelieu.”

Porthos felt that unerring flutter of excitement, identical to when a piece he was writing was going particularly well. The man had covered his tracks, but not thoroughly enough. “And when did he buy it?” he asked casually.

“Let me see, that would be January 2010,” she said, scanning through the records. “He purchased fifty acres of land in and around Howerton via a broker in London.”

“Can you tell me which plots exactly?” asked Porthos.

“Yes, of course,” she said, clicking through pages and then her face fell. “Actually, that’s odd. No, I can’t.”

“What about the details of any land Louis Bourbon may have purchased recently?” asked Porthos.

Lilian tapped away again at her keyboard "No. That's not available either. Let me try something else." She typed in some new search parameters. "I'm really sorry, Porthos," she said, shaking her head. "I’m at a loss. I thought the information must have been reclassified by mistake, but it's simply not here."

“Do me a favour and don’t mention this to anyone,” said Porthos as he sat on the edge of the desk.

“I really ought to say something,” said Lilian, staring at the doctored records in consternation. "This is most unorthodox."

“But that could cause a huge amount of hassle for Mr Richelieu,” said Porthos who had noticed some evidence of party affiliation on the walls, and was playing a hunch. Lilian was the epitome of a country Conservative. "With an election not too far away.”

“You're right,” she said. “Not that I’m implying there’s anything underhanded going on, but still.”

“We’d best keep it on the downlow, “ said Porthos conspiratorially. “Oh, and one more thing. Do you know when the Comte de la Fère bought the Manor?”

“I do indeed,” said Lilian. "I always used to walk my dog around the estate, and when I first noticed someone living there I had a nose through the records to see who was the new owner. That would be the spring of 2010. The bluebells were lovely that year."

Making a mental note to buy Lilian the biggest box of chocolates he could find, Porthos left the council offices, high on success. He hadn't got any actual evidence against Richelieu, nor had he any proof of who had sold the recreation ground to Bourbon, but he knew that there were dirty dealings going on and he skidded down the icy steps, intending to find out a lot more about Mr Armand Richelieu: MP, government minister and man with his fingers in all sorts of pies.

"Where's Aramis?" he called to Treville as he swanned into the News office, stamping the compacted snow off his boots and bursting with potential energy.

The editor emerged from his office and leant on the door frame. "He came to work drunk," he said with a worried expression on his face. "I sent him home to sleep it off, but I'd appreciate you making sure he's okay. He's a pain in the arse at times, but never this irresponsible."

Porthos sighed. Aramis had been seeing d'Artagnan last night and he had a pretty good idea of what was the matter with his best friend. "I'll go have a chat to him.”

"Thanks,” said Treville. “And don't forget you're interviewing the Britain in Bloom team tomorrow."

"How could I ever?" said Porthos, raising his eyebrows.

"Bread and butter, young man," said Treville, smiling as Porthos put his coat back on. "It's what pays the bills."

"Yes, boss." Porthos grinned at him.

"Oh and Porthos." Treville's smile faded. "What _were_ you doing at the council offices this morning?"

Apparently the editor had his own set of spies. "Nothing important. Just checking out some land classifications for a story."

"Don't tread on any toes," warned Treville. "And tell our Mr d'Herblay I expect him here bright, early and very much sober tomorrow morning to make up for today's fiasco. He’ll have a lot of seed trays to photograph, and I expect them to look good in my paper."

With a jokey salute Porthos left the office, fighting his way home through the drifts. If this weather didn’t pack it in soon they’d be stuck in Howerton for the duration of the winter. 

The short walk from work to home left Porthos resembling a snowman, and brushing off the worst of it as he stood on the step, he then entered the cottage, taking off his boots and hanging up his coat by the door to let the melt water drip onto the mat below.

“Aramis,” he yelled.

“I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk to anyone.” The voice was slurred and miserable and came from upstairs.

“Okay, but do you want a cup of coffee before I stop talking to you?”

“Yes please.”

Porthos couldn’t help but smile. Aramis was hopeless at being bad tempered. He ought to take lessons from the Comte. 

“Here you are,” he said a few minutes later, putting the mug on the bedside table.

“I threw up in the bathroom at work,” said Aramis, his eyes huge and fretful. “Treville’s bound to sack me.”

“He’s worried about you, mate,” said Porthos, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing the hair away from Aramis’ face. “So am I. Want to clue me in?”

“I finished with d’Artagnan last night,” said Aramis. He laughed bitterly. “Although we were never really together so it was hardly what you’d call a break up.”

He shuddered in a series of breaths and Porthos could tell he’d been crying. “I’m sorry, buddy. Did you tell him about Anne?”

“I can’t even do that, not until she’s spoken to Louis, but I couldn’t carry on sleeping with him, pretending everything was fine when it wasn't.”

“Oh, Aramis.” Porthos stretched out across the bed and Aramis curled into his side. “You don’t have to be with Anne if it’s not what you want.”

“But she’s having my baby.” Aramis adopted an expression of grim determination. “And I’m going to look after them.”

“Birth parents don’t have to be together. It’s not always the right thing for the kid,” said Porthos, thinking of his own fucked up family. Aramis would be a great father, but Porthos couldn't think of anything worse than being stuck in a relationship with someone you didn't love, just for the sake of convention.

“I adore Anne,” said Aramis stubbornly and then he yawned and closed his eyes. “I’m going to be the best dad ever.”

Leaving him to sleep it off, Porthos went downstairs and, discovering it was well past lunchtime, made himself a ham sandwich, sitting to eat it in his usual place at the table, and watching out of the window as the final glimpses of green disappeared from view, no mean feat in a garden as out of control as theirs was.

Searching for an excuse, worried that if this kept up he wouldn't be able to drive up to the Manor much longer, Porthos decided to visit Olivier and tell him about the information he’d unearthed on Richelieu and his dubious business practices.

Before braving the weather again, he made some Marmite toast for Aramis and left the plate and a glass of water beside him, tucking a spare quilt around the man so that he didn't get cold.

“Silly bugger,” he said affectionately.

“What?” Aramis opened his eyes.

“Go back to sleep,” said Porthos. “There’s some food there if you’re hungry and I've left the heating on full blast. I'm off to the Manor.”

“Give le Comte one from me.” Aramis managed a bleary smile and then drifted off again.

Once he'd set out, Porthos began to regret his decision. The roads were lethal with fresh layers of flakes falling onto frozen snow and, unused to these driving conditions, he took his time, convinced he was going to spin off the road.

It took twice as long as normal to get to the Manor and when he finally pulled into the driveway his heart was racing. Stepping out of the car, he approached the kitchen door and knocked, not entirely sure what kind of a welcome to expect. It was always an emotional gamble coming here.

Olivier opened the door then glared at him and Porthos’ juddering heart sank.

“How many more times do I have to tell you lot to stay away?” he said, but he didn't block the way, walking instead into the kitchen which Porthos took as vague invitation. “I've had the boy here all morning, crying on my shoulder, and now this.” Olivier spun around and glared at him again. “What do _you_ want from me?”

“I came to tell you that Richelieu bought up loads of land in and around Howerton, just before you moved in,” said Porthos. “The solicitors must have have been portioning off the estate before selling the actual house.”

“Fascinating,” said Olivier, clearly less than fascinated. “But I warned you not to meddle with Richelieu.” He paused. “Or with me for that matter.”

Sod it. Porthos had had as much as he could take. “Don’t you dare push me away again,” he growled, striding over to Olivier then taking him into his arms and forcing all that frustration and pent up need into his mouth. Heaving him up onto the counter, he manoeuvred a way between his legs, shoving against him as he slid a hand up his thigh to knead at his hardening cock. “I told you I don’t give a fuck who you were, who you are. I don’t give a fuck about anything. Chrissake, man.”

Olivier stilled for a moment, those pretty eyes darkening by the second, and then he surged forward, legs and arms clamping around Porthos, fingers twisting into his hair, letting out these wanton moans as he kissed back twice as fiercely, sucking at him, licking into him until they were both a trembling mess of arousal.

“Bloody hell,” said Porthos, his hand, that was poised to work its way beneath the waistband of Olivier’s trousers, coming to a sudden halt as he spotted a familiar little car crawling up the driveway.

“Don’t tell me you’ve come to your senses again.” Olivier smirked and, in reply, Porthos inclined his head and kissed him, with clear intent, on the mouth. 

“Don’t have any senses left that aren’t to do with you and bed,” he said in a gruff voice. “The problem is that, right now, Constance is getting out of her bloody toy car and is about a minute away from interrupting us.”

“Fuck me,” said Olivier disconsolately as he hopped down from the worktop. 

Porthos stepped back to tidy himself up, grateful for the thick fisherman’s jumper that would hopefully conceal his raging hard on. “No one’s fucking anyone,” he said in frustration as he watched the girl make her way around to the side of the house and reached for the door handle, ready to let her in. “That’s the problem. No one’s ever fucking anyone.”

“Don’t mind me, boys,” said Constance as she bustled inside with a grin of unadulterated delight at seeing them so dishevelled and red faced. “The forecast said that the storm might set in and so I thought I’d better fetch some supplies.”

“She means for the horses,” said Olivier, his eyebrow quirking in amusement.

“Who else?” said Constance. “Come and help me unload and then you can get back to whatever you were doing while I make a start on the tea.”

“The tea?” said Porthos.

“If you think I’m going anywhere in this then you’re stupid,” said Constance, pointing outside at the blizzard conditions. “Now, come on, you two. Get your skates on.”

The wind was whipping the snow into a frenzied white out and, as they carried bales of hay and bags of feed over from Dolly to the stables, Porthos was amazed at how easy it was to get disorientated. Looking around him, he was completely lost; he couldn’t even make out the huge hulk of a house.

The crunch of something hitting the back of his head made him flail around blindly for an opponent, but the telling slither of icy wetness down the back of his neck, accompanied by a wisp of a mischievous laugh, had him looking for a different enemy to battle.

“Want to play do you, mister?” he said, avoiding another incoming snowball and catching the faint image of a man over to his right. He dived, making full contact and pulling Olivier down into the snow, but he wasn’t quite quick enough and the man was able to skitter away from him.

Another snowball hit him full on the chest, and Porthos wasn’t having this. Preparing a mound of ammunition, he crouched in the snow and, protected by the stable wall, he waited for Olivier to make a mistake.

When he did so, breaking cover to run for the shelter of Dolly, Porthos was lightning quick, firing snowball after snowball at him until he was doubled over laughing and calling for a truce. Scrambling to get on top of him, Porthos pushed him down into the drift that the wind had gathered against the car and licked the snowflakes from his cold lips.

“You’re a bad, bad man,” he muttered in between icy kisses. A contradiction, a confusion of a man and this was a disaster in the making, but Porthos had made his decision and was sticking to it. “Still want to play?”

“No. I want to fuck,” said Olivier, rolling them over until he was straddling Porthos, leaning down to tease his skin with these torturous little nips and sucks, the rough tickle of his beard too much for Porthos who arched up against him moaning with unadulterated pleasure. 

He’d do it. He’d fuck him out here in the open with naked parts in danger of frost bite. He’d fuck him anywhere. Be fucked by him anywhere. End this unconsummated game of on again, off again, to screw or not to screw that they'd been playing for months.

“Olivier, Porthos, get inside before you catch your deaths,” yelled Constance, the wind catching her voice and whirling it into a vortex.

“Mother says we have to go indoors,” said Olivier.

“Mothers aren’t always right,” said Porthos.

“No, they’re not,” agreed Olivier, speckling Porthos’ cold forehead with kisses.

“But this time ours is,” said Porthos with a grin. “My arse is frozen solid. I can’t feel a thing.”

“I’m nice and warm,” said Olivier, squeezing his thigh muscles tightly around Porthos’ torso.

“I’m not your bloody horse,” laughed Porthos.

“That's a shame, because I’m more than ready to ride you,” said Olivier, dipping down to close the gap between them for a last kiss.


	19. Chapter 19

Porthos was loathed to go inside. He and Olivier had known each other for seven months, had been flirting with the idea of a relationship for four, and yet he could count on one hand the number of times they’d had fun. However, with the weather worsening by the second and the temperature falling like a stone, he knew the games were over for now. 

“Do men ever grow up?” said Constance, giving them a stern once over when they arrived back into the warm welcome of the kitchen, needing to thaw out. “You’re both covered.”

"Snowballs," said Porthos with a sheepish grin.

"Is that what they're calling it now?" said Constance as she dug around in the pantry for some food.

Taking Porthos’ coat and boots from him, Olivier dumped all the wet things in the scullery to dry off then made a pot of tea and left it to brew. 

"It's dreadful out there," said Constance, peering out of the window. "I've never known it so bad. You may have to put up with us as house guests for a while."

If it wasn't for Aramis, alone and unhappy back at the cottage, Porthos could think of far worse things in life. Pouring out the teas, he added milk and sugar and handed them round.

"It'll clear," said Olivier in a determined voice, accepting a mug from Porthos with a grateful nod.

"That bandage is soaking," said Porthos. "Let me redress it. I won't be as good at it as Aramis, but I'll have a go."

"It's fine," said Olivier. "Don't fuss."

"I like to fuss," said Porthos in a low voice, sitting at the table and opening the first aid kit, which was still in the same place, then pulling out a chair and encouraging Olivier to sit.

The water had seeped in past the boundaries of the leather gloves he'd been wearing, and Porthos peeled away bandage and dressing to reveal pruned skin beneath. Pushing back the sleeve of the cardigan he ran his palm speculatively up Olivier's forearm, enjoying the soft inhalation of breath that resulted from his touch. Meeting Olivier's gaze, Porthos was compelled to kiss him softly on the lips and their mouths opened to one another.

"I'm not looking," said Constance cheerily. "You carry on."

"We're kissing," grumbled Porthos. "We're not having sex on the table. You don't have to avert your eyes."

Olivier, however, was blushing and Porthos smiled at the sight, taking hold of his hand and cleaning the wound with antiseptic. "It looks fine," he said as he re-wrapped it.

"I told you it was," said Olivier and, once again, Porthos had the urge to drown in those eyes.

"You don't have to hang around the kitchen all afternoon," said Constance. "Go amuse yourselves." She smirked. "I can cope with making sausage and mash, and I'm sure you can think of _something_ you'd like to do."

Olivier looked out at the darkening skies and intense snowstorm, chewing at a bitten down thumbnail. "We're fine here," he said. "I have to see to Roger and Shandy in a while."

Porthos, meanwhile, had been mulling over the options, unable to decide whether to make a run for the bedroom, or drag Olivier into the study, shove him down onto the couch and straddle his lap. He'd admit to being disappointed by Olivier’s choice; tending to horses came a long way down his list of fun things to do on a snowy afternoon.

After finishing their tea and puzzling over the cryptic crossword for half an hour, the two men dressed for the weather and, having brought the animals in from their shelter in the paddock and removed their snowy coats, they fed them, watered them and left them to roll around in their loose boxes, whickering with delight at being out of the cold.

"Why do you bother taking them to the paddock in weather like this?" asked Porthos

Olivier shrugged. "Roger would be a bugger if I kept him in all day," he said. "He's a moody sod."

"Don't know how you managed to find a horse that matched you so well," laughed Porthos.

"Am I really as bad tempered as he is?" said Olivier with a raised eyebrow.

"God, yes," said Porthos. "I half expect you to take a chunk out of me every time I see you."

"Sorry," said Olivier and Porthos barged into him, pushing him back against the wall.

"Don't ever be sorry," he muttered, his hand splayed against Olivier's chest. "We don't ever need to be sorry with each other."

He smashed his mouth against Olivier's, lips bruising, teeth clashing, and as he rocked against him, enjoying the instantaneous reaction, he pulled away from kissing to study the man's face. "We're going to sleep together tonight,” he said with utter determination. “Nothing’s going to stop that from happening. Not even a nuclear war. _Especially_ not a nuclear war.”

Olivier shrugged as they fought their way back to the house. “If the snow dies down before dark then I’d actually like you to make sure Constance gets safely back to town.”

A large part of Porthos had been worrying about leaving Aramis on his own tonight, but the last thing he wanted was to be told to go. “Fucksake, am I being dismissed again?” he said incredulously.

“Far from it,” said Olivier and he paused as he was about to open the kitchen door. " _Porthos_ , you must know by now how much I want you."

"Everything okay?" asked Constance as she watched Olivier secure the back door with both bolts as well as the key.

"Yes," he said affably. "It's a big place and it's easy to get an attack of the jitters. I've got into the habit of locking up early. Chucking their outdoor clothes back into the scullery, he looked at Porthos. "Help me shut up the rest of the house."

The great hall had returned to its default setting of cold and bleak. "I'm guessing this isn't just an excuse so you can have your wicked way with me," said Porthos as he took in the newly taped up windows and the bookcase that had been moved to stand against the glazed doors.

“No, actually it's not, although I very much wish it were." Olivier slid an arm around Porthos' waist. "Martin Labarge has been making a nuisance of himself again," he admitted. "And I’d rather Constance wasn't here tonight, 'though, looking at the weather out there, I don't think the storm's going to lift in time for you to get her back to Howerton.” He smiled at Porthos, but it wasn't very convincing. “I also don’t want to worry her unnecessarily.”

"What's Labarge been doing?" said Porthos in a grim voice. He hated that vicious bastard.

"Just trying to spook me," said Olivier dismissively. "I don't think even a moron like him would venture out in this weather just to smash a few windows, but I wanted you to be prepared."

It was the first time that Olivier hadn’t stonewalled him, pushing him away in that courteous yet discourteous way of his, and Porthos felt privileged at being allowed in. “Are you safe here?” he asked.

“Without a doubt,” Olivier said with a more reassuring smile. “Richelieu isn't an idiot. He wouldn't chance things in the heart of his constituency.”

“And Labarge?”

“Labarge, I’m fairly certain, _is_ an idiot.” Olivier smirked. "But I don't think he'll go against Richelieu's orders. I worry about the horses though. Constance would fall apart if anything happened to Shandy. We should convince her to move him to a livery as soon as possible."

"What about Roger?" said Porthos, knowing how distraught Olivier would be if his own gelding was hurt.

"I need him here," said Olivier. "He's a bully. He can stand up to thugs."

They checked the rest of the house, making certain everything was as secure as it could be, and ended up in the study--their room--where Porthos took advantage of the solitude and did precisely what he'd been intending to earlier, pushing Olivier down and sitting astride his lap.

"I think, if we ever do manage to get it together, then we're going to have a lot of fun in the sack," laughed Olivier, looking up at him with fascinated eyes.

Porthos agreed. He loved the turn and turnabout nature of their relationship, the way they naturally wrestled each other for dominance.

They returned to the kitchen with stubble burn and kiss swollen lips, happy together and grounding each other with touches and smiles. Constance may have looked at them knowingly, but she didn't see the need to mention anything and, for that, Porthos was grateful. As the months progressed, he was finding this strange relationship harder and harder to cope with, to the point where even the smallest comments were winding him up to explosion point. He and Olivier had kissed properly no more than a dozen times, and made each other come less than half that. He needed the man with a growing desperation that was taking over his ability to think rationally.

They ate an early tea in the kitchen, and when Constance tried to usher them out so she could do the clearing Olivier was having none of it, insisting on doing the washing up himself. Nor, contrarily, would he let her put her feet up in the study and read a book. Instead, he made coffee and encouraged everyone to launch a final assault on the crossword.

"Things are worse than you're letting on, buddy boy," murmured Porthos as he leaned in to take a plate from the rack to dry with an ugly gingham tea towel.

"No, honestly they're not," said Olivier, but he was stressed out and jumpy, continually glancing out of the window. “I suppose you could say they have the potential to be worse.”

"Will you two stop whispering to each other and help me with this clue: dog to beat the favourite. Seven letters."

"Whippet," answered Porthos, wondering why he could only do crosswords when his brain was preoccupied with other things.

Having won the battle of the washing up, but been thoroughly trounced by the puzzle, they took their topped up coffees through to the study to watch some movies and relax.

“You’re ever so twitchy,” said Constance, nudging Olivier with an elbow. “Is this house haunted or something?”

“Do we have to talk about ghosts?” grumbled Porthos. With the perfect combination of firelight and snowfall, it should have been a cozy atmosphere in here. Instead, he was catching the jitters from Olivier, feeling hemmed in and fidgety. He was also on a big guilt trip for leaving Aramis on his own. He’d talked to the man an hour or so ago on the phone and everything seemed to be okay, but that didn’t mean that it was. Worrying about everybody was an exhausting job.

“If you happened to believe in spirits, then this place would probably be filled with them,” said Olivier, waving a hand at the old portraits and dusty bookshelves.

“And you don’t?” said Constance.

“I only believe in the kind you find in bottles, and I’m no longer allowed those.” He smiled at her. “Let’s just say I've been here for years, and I've never heard or seen anything vaguely supernatural in nature.” The distant sound of motorbikes had him jumping to his feet and looking out across the moonlit snowfield. “Damn.”

“What is it?” said Constance, looking worried.

“Stay in here and keep away from the windows,” said Olivier, taking her by the hand and leading her over to the fireside armchair with its protective wing back. “It’s just Martin Labarge being an arse. That man needs locking away.”

The roar of motorbike engines grew louder and Porthos could see four or five of them skirting along the edge of the tree line. “It ain't just Labarge,” he muttered. “He’s brought some friends along to play.”

The sound of breaking glass had them all leaping to their feet. “Stay with Constance,” said Olivier, making for the door, but Porthos grabbed him and restrained him with an arm. 

“No chance,” he said. “If anyone’s going out there it’s going to be me.”

“This is my house,” snapped Olivier and his words were accompanied by the sound of several more smashed panes.

“Well then, it’s decided. We all stay here,” said Porthos. “No one needs to look at a broken window.” Locking the study door, he leant against it and took his phone from his pocket.

“What are you doing?” said Olivier, standing at the stone sill to watch the motorbikes circling, casually stepping to one side as a brick was launched through the study window to come crashing down onto the floor at his feet. “As far as I know, the cavalry aren't listed.”

“No, but I have Rochefort’s number,” said Porthos with a shrug and when Olivier looked at him strangely he added: “I play darts with the bloke sometimes. We were talking about getting a team together.”

“Good grief,” muttered Olivier, picking up shards of broken glass from the rug. “You are aware he won’t do anything to help me?”

“He’s a police sergeant,” said Constance. “Of course he will.”

Rochefort, however, was unhelpful to say the least. “It’s just a bunch of local lads from the estate,” he said. “I’ve had a few complaints already tonight. I’ll give them a telling off tomorrow.”

Porthos could clearly recognise Labarge’s big old Triumph. “They’re lobbing bricks at us, mate. Someone’s going to get hurt. Constance is here with us.”

“I said, I’ll have a word with them,” said Rochefort in his officious police voice. “But, I won't be able to get up there tonight; the snow’s too bad. Just sit tight and have a beer or two.”

"Cheers, for that piece of advice. That'll help a lot." Porthos hung up in disgust, looking, in consternation, at Olivier who just shrugged. 

When the bikes stopped circling, Porthos relaxed a little until he began to hear other, more worrying noises, coming from the hallway. “Shit,” he said. “I think they’re trying to get inside. Have you got anything here we can use for defence? Knife, letter opener, anything?”

“There’s always the poker,” said Constance.

“There’s also this,” said Oliver, unlocking his desk drawer with the set of keys he kept in his pocket at all times and taking out a pistol. “Unfortunately, I have no idea how to use it.”

“Fuck.” It was a Glock 17 semi automatic and Porthos _did_ know how to use it. “Have you got ammunition?” he said, taking the gun and testing its weight in his hand. It felt cold and ugly.

“Some,” said Olivier, passing him a clip.

“Right then.” Loading the gun, Porthos unlocked the study door and with Olivier behind him, checked the hallway to see what was going on.

The ancient doors were creaking under the weight of something heavy being rammed against them and the two men looked at each other.

“Wonder why he’s not smashed the French windows in the great hall and got in that way?” said Porthos.

“Because he’s an idiot,” said Olivier with a quirk of an eyebrow.

“We’re unlocking the doors,” yelled Porthos, “and then we’re all going to have a chat, so stop trying to batter them down.”

When peace reigned, Porthos opened up to see Labarge grinning like a loon on the step, his gang of thugs standing a few paces behind him, their faces blanked out by visors. His face dropped a mile when he saw the gun in Porthos' hand. 

“I suggest you bugger off and tell Mr Richelieu that childish intimidation tactics are not going to force me out of Howerton,” said Olivier, his arms folded as he faced down the intruders.

“No need to be like that, Monsieur le Comte,” said Labarge with an ugly leer. “I was just here for a neighbourly visit. Making sure you're alright with the storm setting in and all.”

“You can take your neighbourly visit and shove it up up your arse,” snarled Porthos. “I don’t fucking like you and, more than that, if I see you here again then I’ll be using you as target practice.”

“You can shove this up your arse while you're at it,” said Constance, waving her poker at him.

“Threatening an unarmed man is a criminal offence,” said Labarge with another unpleasant smirk. “I’d watch that if I was you. Sergeant Rochefort would be most interested to hear what you said.”

The man strode away to his motorbike, his gang of thugs following behind like leather clad ducklings, and Porthos, fully charged with that adrenaline surge of victory, turned to look at Olivier who, in contrast, seemed broken down and shattered by the events of the evening.

Porthos wondered how long this bruiser initiative had been going on for. “It’s okay,” he said in an undertone. “We’ve seen him off.” Resting his arm across Olivier’s shoulders, he felt the man buckle beneath the weight. “Come on.” He nuzzled at his neck. “Let’s put this gun back in a safe place before it does any harm.”

“I have a feeling it’s done quite enough harm already tonight,” said Olivier cryptically.

“What did Labarge think he was doing? Bloody hell, that was straight out of a murder mystery,” said Constance, her eyes wide with excitement.

Still fired up, Porthos couldn't help grinning at her. “And there's nothing more exciting than a good murder mystery.” Removing the magazine, he handed both that and the pistol to Olivier, who locked them safely away in the drawer. “If only I could write about it,” he sighed. “It beats the hell out of championship flower boxes and disputes over cypress trees.”

“Write about what?” snapped Olivier, perching wearily on the edge of the desk. “Some windows getting broken by a bunch of thugs? What exactly would you write about, Porthos?”

“Maybe I’d tell the story of a frightened man who should learn to trust his friends with the whole truth.” Walking over to Olivier, he took hold of his wrists and pulled him, not quite yielding, into his arms. "You know you can trust us," he said softly and stiffened muscles relaxed against him.

"I do," said Olivier. "But you honestly have no idea what kind of trouble you're getting yourselves into."

"And you have no idea how much trouble I can be," said Porthos gruffly. This crap was nothing compared to his past life. "A few thugs don't bother me."

"We're not going to abandon you because of some bullies," said Constance defiantly. She still had the poker in her hand and was waving it to emphasise her point.

"Thank you both very much," said Olivier, "But I still wish-"

"Don't you wish me away," growled Porthos. He rested his forehead against Olivier's, and then shifted back slightly to look at the man and lose himself in those pretty eyes. The brush of lips that followed soon evolved into a fully fledged kiss.

“And there goes my cue to boil the kettle,” said Constance, putting her erstwhile weapon down in the cast iron rack and making a strategic exit. 

Ending the kiss before things got too heated, Olivier rested his hands on Porthos' shoulders. "You should tell the story of a naïve journalist who didn't know when to stop digging,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, leaning in once more, the tip of his tongue tracing the outline of Porthos’ mouth.

The tiniest of touches between them were made of pure electricity. “Would that be about me or you, Athos?” Porthos asked. It was the first time he'd used that name in anything but rage.

“Both, I think,” said Olivier, blinking in the surprise at the unexpected use of his alias, and yet he didn't baulk from it. Quite the reverse, in fact. “Don’t get accustomed to calling me that, ” he added.

"Athos." Porthos tested it again under his breath, and it was a surprisingly comfortable fit. Images of de Winter, smug with success in those wrinkled designer suits, filled his head and he wanted to fuck the conceited smile right off that face. Tangling his fingers into messy hair, he kissed him with deep swipes of tongue that built and built until they were both shaking with need.

“Hey, hey, enough.” Olivier pulled away with a gentle smile. “Constance is only in the kitchen and we really have to stick together tonight. Now that we've provoked Labarge, I don’t trust him not to come back and finish what he started.”

Filled with curiosity, Porthos stared at the man, trying to unearth his alter ego from beneath that scruffy exterior and those soft blue eyes, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then he remembered that his own past was just as well obscured--no one ever guessed the kind of life he’d led as a youngster--and yet picking up that gun had made him realise how close it lurked at times.


	20. Chapter 20

In a strange twist of fate, just as Porthos had promised, it became the first night they slept together, furled in each other’s arms on one couch, with Constance taking the smaller one. A slumber party for grown ups she called it, insisting they ate junk food and talked until the small hours. When she finally nodded off, Porthos and Olivier kissed a lot and touched a little, enjoying the quiet moment of togetherness until they too fell asleep. Puppy love revisited.

A few hours later, Porthos discovered that, despite not being the slightest bit comfortable, it was actually bliss to wake up blanketed by Olivier, who’d crawled onto him sometime during the night and settled across his chest, face down in the crook of his neck.

“I wouldn't have taken him for a cuddler,” sniggered Constance. "Never judge a book by its cover."

No truer word, thought Porthos, as he kissed the top of the man's head in order to rouse him. Olivier had several different cover designs, plus a few layers of dust jackets to boot. "Come on, gorgeous. Wake up. I really need a wee."

Olivier was hard against him, lips working a warm path across his throat, making him dizzy with sensory overload until he could no longer tell whether he was about to piss himself or come. Rolling that sleepy body to one side, he threw off the covers and made a run for the bathroom where he waited, erection hot in his hand, for the ache in both bladder and balls to subside.

The stream of urine, when it finally arrived, was sheer relief, and afterwards he turned on the bath taps, needing to soak away the build-up of stress from last night.

"I've brought you a coffee," called Olivier and, half undressed, Porthos opened the bathroom door, his cock thickening once again when Olivier entered and slammed the bolt into its housing.

"We deserve five minutes to ourselves," he said, putting the mugs down on the shelf then kneeling to tug at Porthos' undone jeans until they descended to the floor.

"Fuck," groaned Porthos as Olivier mouthed at his erection through the stretch cotton of his pants, material turning translucent to mark every inch of the journey. Teeth nipped at him, tongue licked him until Porthos lost all capacity for rational thought and held Olivier in place, feet planted and trousers around his ankles as he rubbed against him, whining with need.

Coming to his senses, he hauled Olivier upwards and kissed that wicked grin off his face. "Trying to make me come in my pants is ungentlemanly," he growled, stepping out of his jeans then stripping Olivier efficiently and wrapping a hand around his stiff cock. 

It was the first time he'd held him in his arms, stark naked and ready to play. The urge to push him onto all fours and have that longed for fuck was outrageously tempting, but with Constance hoovering away downstairs, singing loudly to accompany the drone of the machine, the mood was a long way from perfect. He wanted their first time to be something more memorable than a quickie on the bathroom floor to the monotonous symphony of Dyson.

"Come on, Porthos. Move, damn you." Olivier tried to thrust into his fist, but Porthos only increased his grip, sucking kisses onto Olivier's neck then pinching at his nipples until he was wide eyed and pleading. "Teasing is also ungentlemanly."

Porthos laughed. "But I'm not a gentleman, so I can do what I like." His free hand moved around to slide down the cleft of Olivier's arse, skating over that tiny ring of muscle again and again until the man was incoherent with need. Then, just as things were heating up to danger point, Porthos stepped away and surveyed his work with pride, taking in a cock so swollen it was upright, eyes that were ink dark and a pointedly sulky mouth.

Laughing with delight, he checked the temperature of the water and turned off the taps. He'd had months to get used to this constant hum of arousal and as he took off his pants, he trailed a finger up himself from root to tip. "Let's have a bath together," he said, laughing again at the incredulous expression on Olivier’s face. 

Even in his birthday suit, he looked every inch the haughty and bad tempered man that Porthos had encountered on his first day in Howerton. “A bath?” he said.

Porthos nodded. “Yep. I want to have a bath with you.” First to get in, he manoeuvred Olivier until he was astride his chest and, with his head propped at the perfect angle against the enamel wall of the tub, took him into his mouth. It was a joy to finally do this and, nibbling and laving, he explored every millimetre of skin with slow precision until Olivier was curved over him, gasping.

"Not yet." Oliver slid downwards, until they lay together mouth to mouth, cock to cock, exchanging kisses and touches. Then, rolling over onto his back he stretched out, legs clamped tightly together with Porthos' erection pushing between his thighs.

It was so unfamiliar to him that Porthos took a while to get used to it, but soon the squeeze of those muscles, the heat of the water and the contrasting coolness of the air had him floating. Bucking and thrusting, bath water splashing onto the floor, he wrapped his palm around Olivier and worked him at a hefty pace, murmuring a constant flow of nonsense into his ear, and when Olivier turned his head to smile at him, he raked that mouth with kisses. 

His orgasm, when it hit, was an out of body experience. As it ripped through him he was overloaded with pleasure, yet still able to watch in fascination as the come jetted from his cock. Was able to pull Olivier off to a long drawn out climax and watch as their semen gelled into strands in the water. 

Afterwards, as they shifted around to get comfortable, Porthos’ cock, still half hard, nestled in and came to rest in a very tempting place. 

"If that had happened earlier..." said Olivier with a grin.

Naked, wet and unrestrained, they would have fucked themselves raw. "Best it didn't," said Porthos, a hundred percent happy with the way things were going. "We've got plenty of time."

Aware that they were being idle, it didn’t stop either man from enjoying that sleepy, apres-sex blur. They lazed together in bed, rubbing each other with towels until they were dry, and then crawled unwillingly out from under the covers to dress at a snail’s pace, Olivier lagging way behind.

“Hurry up,” said Porthos, catching hold of the man’s hand and playing with the fingers. “We can’t leave Constance to do all the work.”

“Five more minutes,” said Olivier, falling backwards onto the bed and pulling Porthos with him. 

“Remember who you are, Monsieur le Comte,” laughed Porthos and, unable to resist, he was drawn into a monster of a hug. “You have a reputation to uphold. You can’t be all cute and cuddly.”

“I can if I stay here,” said Olivier and the smile that accompanied his words was gentler than usual, his eyes full of hidden emotion.

“Yeah, you can, but unfortunately life doesn’t work that way.” Porthos escaped the bed and pulled Olivier upright. “We have responsibilities.”

It was all go when they finally emerged. The radio was on, the furniture was in disarray and fires were burning in the hearths.

“I’ve swept away most of the glass,” said Constance, looking up as they descended the staircase. Porthos had a feeling she wasn’t too chuffed at being left on her own all morning to do the tidying. “It’s up to you two to try and patch up the holes before the whole place becomes a freezer.” 

“Okay,” said Olivier obediently.

“The horses are out in the paddock. There’s tea and toast in the kitchen, and I’m off to have a wash.“ She narrowed her eyes. “I hope you didn't leave the bathroom in too much of a mess.”

“Nope, it’s spotless,” said Porthos, relieved that they’d thought to clean it before they came down.

“Good,” she said with a knowing look.

After breakfast, they started on the long job of temporarily repairing the windows. It was difficult and quite ineffective trying to seal such tiny panes set within a huge expanse of glass, but they did their best.

“Bastards,” muttered Porthos. “This is your bloody home.”

Olivier passed Porthos a strip of duct tape. “It’s just a building. I have no particular affection for it.”

“Why did you buy it then?” asked Porthos.

Olivier shrugged. “It was convenient.”

By ten, with a spell of bright sunshine having melted the worst of the ice, Porthos decided that it was safe to make the journey back to town, taking Constance in the Golf rather than letting her risk her life with Dolly's balding set of tyres.

"Are you sure you'll be okay taping up the rest of the windows?" he said, holding onto Olivier's hands, loathed to leave him here even during daylight hours. "I know what you're like with ladders."

"Stop fussing." Olivier leaned in for a kiss. “I’ve told you about that.”

"I'll be back after work," said Porthos.

"You don't have to."

"No, but I want to." Porthos buried his face between layers of scarf and a warm inviting neck that was begging to be kissed. "Christ, do I want to,” he murmured. He was already day dreaming of them spending the entire night together, fucking each other senseless in that huge and rather ornate ebony bed.

There was also another good reason for being here before darkness fell. The final blizzard had covered every speck of evidence to show that there had been intruders on the estate, but Porthos wasn’t going to let Olivier go through that on his own again. No bloody way. Tonight, he'd be ready for them. If Rochefort wasn't prepared to help then he'd take care of matters himself.

"I _do_ have a shop to open," said Constance with a pointed look at both men.

They parted company with a final brush of lips, and as Porthos climbed into his car and started the engine he looked back at Olivier, standing there with his hand raised in farewell, and had to fight hard to resist the urge to race back into his arms. Waving goodbye, he inched around the turning circle and then crawled down the drive, getting used to the icy conditions.

“Last night was horrible,” said Constance said with a shiver. “I hate that he's scared enough to keep a gun in the house.” The bleep of the alarm reminded her to fasten her seatbelt as Porthos turned right into the snow covered lane and picked up speed. “If the people here knew what kind of a man Richelieu actually was then they’d never vote for him again.”

“Problem is he’s a dangerous motherfucker,” said Porthos. “And we now know that for a fact.” He too had been thinking about that Glock, loathing the memories attached to the cold weight of it in his hand. He'd never shot anyone, thank fuck, but he so easily could've done. He’d threatened enough people in his past.

“What does Olivier think he’s doing messing with a monster like that?” said Constance. "Stupid man."

Porthos didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, because as he touched the brakes to turn into the next hairpin the car refused to respond. He tried to slow it with gears and steer into the skid, but was terror stricken when he realised there there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent this from happening. They were out of control, speeding headlong towards one of the huge oak trees that crowded the side of the lane, and there was a strong possibility that one or both of them might die.

Thrown forward and then back like a rag doll as they impacted with the trunk, the car slewed wildly, crashing down the snowy bank and into the frozen drainage ditch, and as the bodywork crumpled Porthos cried out in agony as a fallen branch smashed through the car door and slammed into his leg.

“Constance.” He looked to his left at the shaking girl beside him and he tried to say more, but as the pain worsened the words stuck in his throat and, growing colder and sicker, the world began to slip out of focus.

“Porthos, please stay awake.”

He forced his eyes open to look at her. There was a gash on her forehead and blood running down her face. “You’re hurt.”

“Never mind that,” she said. “I can’t get a signal. Where’s your phone?”

“Coat pocket,” he muttered as he fell into a black void.


	21. Chapter 21

"He's regaining consciousness. Hello, Porthos, that's it. Don't try to move."

When Porthos opened his eyes, it was to a frightening scene of flashing lights and unfamiliar faces. "What happened?" he asked.

"Your car skidded off the road," said the paramedic. "We're going to lift you out now, so I'll pop this mask over your mouth and nose, and I need you to breathe in to help with the pain. Okay?"

"Constance," said Porthos, trying to twist around to look for her and finding that his neck was restrained.

"She's fine. She's in an ambulance on the way to hospital to have a check up. Now breathe in for me."

The hiss of the gas lulled him, numbed him and he closed his eyes as the hydraulic jaws cut away at the bodywork of his car. He was supposed to be at work. He was supposed to go back to the Manor afterwards. How could he let Olivier know he'd had an accident? It was an accident, wasn’t it?

After that everything became a blur. The agony radiating upwards from his injured leg was intense, and as they supported it with a cushioned splint he passed out again before the extra pain relief they'd given him could take effect.

Next time he awoke he was lying in a sterile hospital bed with Aramis sitting next to him.

"Hello there, lovely. I thought you were never going to come round. I've read the paper at least four times and almost finished the sudoku. You know how much I hate sudoku."

"What happened?" croaked Porthos and he tried to reach for a glass of water but found he was stuck fast, unable to move.

Aramis raised the bed and passed him his water. "Your car went off the road into a tree. Your right leg was a bit of a mess from the knee downwards, but they've operated and pinned you back together. You'll be stuck in plaster for a few weeks, you poor old sod."

"Constance. Oh, god." Porthos remembered her terrified face just before they hit the tree. And the blood. There was a lot of blood. “She’s hurt.”

"She's fine,” said Aramis. “A bump on the head and a small cut, that's all. They're keeping her in for a minor concussion and she's giving them hell for it." He laughed. "I adore that girl."

"Tell her," said Porthos, struggling to organise his thoughts. "Tell her not to drive back from Olivier's. Not until Serge has given her car the once over." Somewhere in his muzzy head he knew this was of vital importance.

"Why?" asked Aramis, looking at him curiously. "Not that it matters, because Rochefort's arranged for Serge to pick Dolly up in his truck and bring her home."

"Already?" Alarm bells were ringing. "Don't you think that's a bit weird?"

"Not at all," said Aramis. "Not in a town like Howerton."

"I think someone tampered with my brakes," said Porthos in an undertone. "And I know who did it."

"You've had too much of the gas and air, my friend," laughed Aramis. "You skidded off an icy bend on an ungritted road."

Porthos fell silent, because the more he thought about it, the more logical that explanation sounded. He normally had no time for nutjob conspiracy theories, but in this case he'd witnessed the nasty underbelly of Howerton at work. "Olivier," he muttered. "Aramis, can you tell him what's happened?"

"No need to fret. I popped in on the way over here." Aramis searched his pockets and pulled out a crumpled envelope which he handed to Porthos. "That man really is stuck in the dark ages. Who writes letters these days?"

Porthos carefully tore it open and took out a folded sheet.

 _Porthos_ , it read. No dear, no darling and so very Olivier that it made Porthos smile through his pain. The body of the letter, however, was different altogether, and as he read on his amusement was replaced by a very different set of emotions.

_If only we'd stayed in bed and locked the world out. I imagine you here, in my house, in my life and am so empty without you. I feel your arms around me, your mouth on mine, and wish I could be there with you. You know that I would if I could._

_Get well soon and keep out of harm's way. I've asked Aramis to be your nursemaid and your gaoler and never let you out of his sight._

He'd signed off with the word 'yours' followed by an elegant capital A and, emotional and fragile, Porthos struggled to cope, his breath coming in shallow bursts.

Aramis patted his hand. "Love really does send the heart racing," he smirked, looking at the rising digits on the monitor. "Maybe the written word has more impact than I realised. I must start composing sonnets."

Folding the paper and tucking it back in the envelope, Porthos was loathed to let go of it. Fuck! He was supposed to be with Olivier, not stuck here in this bleached, soulless hospital ward. "Will you make sure everything's okay at the Manor?" he said, his eyes drifting shut.

"He wants me to look after you. You want me to look after him." Aramis threw his arms in the air. "If only you'd look after each other and leave me out of it." He paused. "He won't come to visit, you know."

"He can't."

"Yet more secrets." Aramis shook his head in frustration.

"The same secrets." Porthos stared at him. "Just keep an eye on him for me, will you."

*

That evening he had a surprise visit from Constance. The small wound on her forehead was taped up, but other than that she looked in fine fettle and was in really good spirits.

"They've had enough of me. They're letting me out." She squeezed Porthos' hand. "How are you, my love?"

"Alright," said Porthos, a deep sigh escaping him and telling a different story. "I’m tired of being stuck in here and weeing into a bag, but I'll live. I'm sorry about what happened, Constance. I should have been more careful. I'm not used to driving on untreated roads."

"It wasn't your fault," she said with a pointed look. "I'm certain of it."

"It was an accident," said Porthos, trying to convince himself of that as much as her.

"You know they brought my car back on a tow truck?"

Porthos nodded.

"Did you also know they got Serge to give her a thorough service before driving her home? Fleur told me about it because she thought it was weird. Why would they do that, if not to cover up someone's dirty work?"

The implications of this weren't at all pleasant, and a shiver crawled up Porthos' spine. It meant that the corruption here was far more widely spread out than he had initially thought. "When I first came to Howerton I called it a nest of vipers," he muttered.

"I'm not sure you were wrong," said Constance. Her phone beeped and she glanced at the screen. "Fleur's waiting in the car park so I'm off. Have a nice rest and I'll pop in tomorrow after I've been up to the Manor." She squeezed his hand again. "Is there any message you want me to pass on?"

The written words from Olivier had been an absolute declaration of feelings. Tell him I love him, Porthos wanted to say, but that would wait until they were together and he could say it in person. "Tell him I'll see him soon," he said. "Tell him I miss him and to stay out of trouble." 

*

Inundated with visits from well wishers, Porthos was very relieved to be packing his bags to go home. He'd practiced walking on crutches for the OT's and physios. He'd been x-rayed and given a dozen packs of paracetamol for the pain. All he needed now was for his chauffeur to turn up. 

Sitting on the bed, waiting for Aramis, he re-read the dozens of get well soon cards he’d received, overwhelmed by the huge amount of kindness that he'd been shown. Alice had written him an especially lovely message, but nothing came close to touching him in the way a certain crumpled piece of paper had done. The letter from Olivier was stowed safely in his jacket pocket, next to his heart. 

As soon as he was home, he'd wash the hospital smell off him then find something classier to put on than the pair of old tracksuit pants he was currently wearing. After that, he'd either talk Aramis into giving him a lift, or call a cab to drive him to the Manor. He had to see Olivier, to kiss him, to touch him and make sure he was okay. Between them they'd find a million different ways to take his mind off this bloody leg. A million different ways to fuck.

"You're keen," said Aramis, striding into the ward. "I expected to have to pack away your many boxes of chocolates when I got here."

"Five days trapped in a hospital bed is enough to drive anyone mad." Porthos looked pleadingly at Aramis. "Get me out of here, buddy."

"Si, mi amigo," laughed Aramis, picking up his bags and passing Porthos his crutches. "I'm at your disposal for as long as you need me. Treville's told me to take care of you, and I'm also under strict instructions from Monsieur le Comte to wrap you up in cotton wool.”

They made slow progress along corridors and down lifts, with Porthos finding the weight of the cast and the residual pain difficult to bear.

“Do you want me to get you a wheelchair?” asked Aramis, chuckling when Porthos growled at him. “Well, how about I carry you?”

“I’d like to see you try, seeing as I’m a good two stone heavier than you,” grumbled Porthos. “I’ll be fine.” Actually, he was far from fine and was sincerely beginning to doubt whether he’d be up for all that sex he’d imagined earlier. He was, however, determined that he was going to see Olivier

“Fireman’s lift, over the shoulder and away.” Aramis looked sideways at him. “You don’t have to be the big, brave man all the time, you know.”

“I’m not, believe me,” said Porthos. Small and frightened was a far better description of how he felt on the inside.

Finally arriving at the main entrance, Porthos waited on a bench while Aramis brought the Citroën around to the drop off zone. Even he wasn't stubborn enough to think he could make it all the way up a snow covered hill to the car park.

“Your chariot awaits,” said Aramis, opening the passenger door and pushing the seat as far back as it would go. “There’ll plenty of room for you and your cast in here. I’ve managed a threesome in the front of this car.”

“Did not want to know that,” muttered Porthos as he climbed in with difficulty, handing the crutches to Aramis who chucked them on the back seat with the bags.

It was ridiculous, but even travelling along clear main roads, Porthos was a nervous passenger, coming close, several times over, to yelling at Aramis and begging him to slow down. 

Aramis glanced sideways, clearly picking up on his mood. “How about a Chinese takeaway, tonight?” he said as a distraction. “You can order anything you like, even those gross deep fried pork balls and the cabbage with sugar on it.”

“To be honest, mate, I was thinking of going out,” said Porthos, hoping that Olivier would be looking forward to seeing him. He was pretty sure he would be after the man had put feelings down on paper, but then again he was an unpredictable sod. Erratic behaviour, Olivier had named it himself, and there was no better description .

“You’re not up to it,” said Aramis brusquely. “Doctor’s orders were to rest and recuperate for at least a week before you start moving around. Even Treville’s doing his bit, covering your job while you’re out of action, so the least de la Fère can do is visit you at the cottage. He’s spent a lot of time visiting the wine department of the supermarket over the past two years.”

“ _Aramis_ ,” growled Porthos.

“Don’t tell me I don’t understand, because I’m not listening to that shit any longer.”

“Aramis,” said Porthos in a totally different tone. His friend wasn’t the sort to lose his temper, certainly not over something as trivial as him going out for an evening. “What’s the matter?”

Aramis frowned. “You and I are continually leaping around doing other people’s bidding, and frankly I’m sick of it. We ought to show some gumption.”

“Now tell me the real problem,” said Porthos as Aramis took the turning for Howerton.

“Anne had a paternity test done yesterday without even discussing it with me.” Aramis scraped a hand through his hair.

“It’s probably a good idea to know which one of you is the baby's father,” said Porthos, testing the waters. He couldn't imagine anything worse than being stuck bringing up Louis Bourbon's child for eternity.

“Yes, but surely it should be my decision too. I’ve feel as if I’ve been sidelined.” He heaved in a deep breath. “I don’t even know what I want any more.”

“Now that Louis knows about the affair, it means you can tell d’Artagnan the truth,” pointed out Porthos. “That’s got to be a good thing.”

“I doubt he’ll even speak to me,” said Aramis, pulling up outside home. "I wouldn't speak to me under these circumstances."

“He will,” said Porthos with confidence as he hopped out of the car and collected his crutches from the back seat.

It was a damn sight harder to negotiate the tiny passageways and low beams inside the cottage than it was the wide open spaces of the hospital. He nearly came a cropper several times, just getting to the living room, and was utterly relieved to sink down onto the couch and prop his aching leg up on the table.

“Coffee?” asked Aramis. “Or shall I help you into your jimjams and tuck you up in bed?”

“Just be glad I didn’t break my arm, or you’d be helping me have a piss,” grinned Porthos. “I’m fine here for now and I’d love a cup of tea.” 

“I’m useless at making tea, you know that,” complained Aramis.

“Yours is way better than that muck at the hospital.” Porthos laced his fingers behind his neck and relaxed, very glad to be home. “Just stick a bag in a cup and pour on water. You can’t go wrong.”

“I’ll have a go, but I’m not making promises,” said Aramis and minutes later he carried in a mug along with a pile of cards. “More fan mail for you.”

Porthos took a sip of the tea and handed it straight back. “Two sugars please, mate.”

Whilst Aramis was in the kitchen Porthos sifted through the post and found, to his delight, another letter from Olivier, but when he opened it the bottom dropped out of his world. Letting out a howl of dismay, he stared at the small foil wrap in his hand, unfurling it with trembling fingers to see whether it was what he thought it must be.

“What the…?” Aramis was crouched next to him, hand resting on his knee. “Porthos, love, please tell me why someone’s sent you mail order drugs.”

Rewrapping the foil and hiding it in the envelope, Porthos stared at the familiar writing and threw it on the table, curling into the corner of the sofa as far away as possible from the tiny package that was calling to him in its winsome voice. Why would he do it? Why the fuck would Olivier do this to him?


	22. Chapter 22

By the time he realised he was crying, there were floods of tears rolling down his cheeks and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Nor could he stem the flow of truth that had been suppressed for so long.

“I had a shit childhood,” he said. “Really shit. My dad was a violent bastard and he liked nothing more than to beat the crap out of my mum and I. She wasn’t much kinder than him.”

“Oh, god, Porthos.” Somehow Aramis had managed to negotiate a way between the table and the plaster cast to get to Porthos and slide in next to him.

“I didn’t have brothers or sisters, just my mates. We lived in this concrete jungle of a housing estate, a maze of passageways and rat runs, and us lot were in charge of the place. No one dared mess with us.”

Thinking back to some of the things he’d done for laughs, to show off to his mates in the Court he felt sick. Nicking pensions of old people. Pushing the girls around, never doing anything really terrible, but scaring them nonetheless.

“I had a bad parents and I was a bad kid,” he said.

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Aramis.

“Oh yeah, it was.” Porthos shuddered in a breath. “I chose to do the things I did. I also chose to do all the drugs that were going too. It was a laugh; you know how it is when you’re a kid. But then one day it stopped being a laugh and I stopped thinking of myself as being indestructible because my best mate, Charon, died of an overdose. I came round after a chase and I found him laid out on the floor, blue and cold, staring up at me.”

It would always be the worst day of his life. Police swarming everywhere. The accusations. The fear. The loss. The guilt.

“I was seventeen years old and I didn’t want to die like Charon, so I tried to stop doing smack, but it wasn’t so easy.” Porthos choked on a cocktail of snot and tears, remembering the hell of going through withdrawal on his own. “I was soon back to my old ways, and things kept getting progressively worse until I got arrested for robbing a newsagents. I don't know how I managed it, but I got off by the skin of my teeth and so I decided that was my break. I went looking for someone to help me and I got lucky. There was this outreach program run by the local college that was designed to help kids like me: homeless, druggies, criminals.”

It was the first time he’d experienced good people without ulterior motives and they frightened the shit out of him at first. He didn’t believe that anyone would offer him so much help and want nothing in return, but eventually they talked him around. He was put on a detox program and then went into hostel accommodation, and finally he got a second chance at life when he was accepted into college.

“I was clean. I had somewhere to live and a part time job. I went to college and from there I earned a place at university. Me going to uni? It was a bloody miracle. The only way I thought I'd ever get out of the Court would be to follow Charon to hell.” He dared to look at Aramis whose cheeks were also streaked with tears. 

"You're out and you're staying out, my friend." Aramis wiped Porthos' face with a tissue and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "So, who, from the old days, is trying to tempt you back in?"

Porthos heaved in an unsteady breath. "That's just it," he said. "That's what's killing me." He tried to turn away, but Aramis wrapped an arm around him and held him in place. "We all have secrets, lovely. We've all done bad things and had bad things done to us. You can tell me anything."

"But we've not all been stupid to the point of naïvety though," said Porthos. He knew the truth and yet he had still chosen to trust Athos. Yesterday he would have trusted him with his life.

"I don't understand," said Aramis.

Anger taking over from self pity, Porthos sat up and blew his nose. "They were sent by someone in Howerton," he said, reaching for the envelope and showing Aramis the post code. He took the letter from his inside pocket and opened it up. "They were sent by the same person who sent this."

Aramis shook his head in sheer disbelief. "Porthos, you're wrong. He'd never do that to you."

"Look at the writing," said Porthos. "If you want more proof then I've got another letter from him upstairs."

Aramis stared at the evidence in front of him. "But why would he do it? This doesn't make any sense, my friend. Someone's fucking with you."

Porthos shifted his leg to ease the discomfort. The anger was helping him cope, but he still felt as if he’d been mentally and physically dissected. "He's the only person I ever told about my drug addiction since I went to uni. I’m pretty sure he's also the only major league drug dealer living in Howerton." He laughed bitterly. "It's pretty clear who's fucking with me."

"Drug dealer? What are you talking about?" Aramis rested a gentling hand on his arm. "Porthos, you're starting to worry me."

Porthos barked out another mirthless laugh. "It's ironic really. That big story you were after when I arrived here? Well, I unearthed the mystery a while ago, only I was too much of a sap to tell anyone. Jesus, I was too much of a sap to stop wanting to fuck him even though I knew all his dirty secrets."

"What are you trying to say?" Aramis was growing ever more frustrated.

"The Comte de la Fère is Athos de Winter. Drug dealer and all around journalist scum." 

Aramis threw himself back in the chair, fingers pushing the tendrils of hair back from his forehead. "You're kidding me."

"No, I'm not," said Porthos with a sigh. “Google him. See for yourself. It ain’t pretty.”

Aramis picked up his iPad from the table and went on a search mission to find out the truth. It didn’t take him long to discover all he needed. “How did we not know?” he asked incredulously. “A bloke that famous, _infamous_ , living up the road and we never even twigged.”

“He was hiding in plain sight,” said Porthos. “Always the best way.”

“And the Comte de la Fère?”

“Is real enough, I think,” said Porthos, finishing off his tea which had cooled to mouth temperature by now and was vile. “A far as I can tell he and de Winter never seemed to exist at the same time. De Winter appeared as soon as the Comte left France.”

“Wow,” said Aramis, scanning the web pages and photographs. “I remember hearing about this on the news, but the actual exposé on him is unbelievable. He’s an utter creep. Though I don’t think those ‘boys’ are anywhere near as young as they say they are.”

Porthos shrugged. He was past caring about the details. “I’m going to go to the Manor and find out what that _creep_ thinks he's doing, and if you won't drive me then I swear to god I'm going to crawl there on my hands and knees."

"No need for that. I'd rather like to hear what he has to say myself," said Aramis grimly as he helped Porthos to his feet. "Are you sure you’re up to it?"

Porthos stowed the dreaded envelope away in his inside pocket, in place of the one that had meant so much to him which was now discarded on the floor. "No, I'm not, but I don't care. This has to be done now."

Back in the car again, Porthos began to feel sick, whether it was from shock, distress or hunger he wasn't sure. The nausea then turned to numbness, and as they drove through the hairpin, where just days ago he had crashed his car, he felt nothing but a general sense of torpor, and a fervent wish that the accident had been a lot worse and had put him to sleep, blissfully unaware that any of this was brewing.

"I’m starting to hate this place," he said as they turned up the drive. There was no sign of any more vandalism, nor tyre tracks in the lawn. Another of Athos' mind games, most likely.

It was a long hobble from the car to the entrance. His crutches kept slipping on the icy flagstones, and Aramis had to keep a tight hold of him to stop him from falling. Never having felt so weak and pathetic in his whole godawful life, he was shuddering by the time he reached the door. He banged on it with the handle of his crutch and when Olivier, when _Athos_ opened it his face lit up with delight.

"Porthos."

"You fucking cunt," Porthos spat and Athos shrank away from him.

"Steady," murmured Aramis, still holding him up.

But Porthos was well past steady. Pushing his way into the kitchen he was shaking as he took the envelope out of his pocket and, tipping the contents out onto the table, he shoved the crumpled paper into Athos’ hand. “Did you send this?”

Athos unfolded the envelope and studied it. “No, I didn’t.” 

“Then why is it addressed to me in your handwriting?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a fucking liar.” Porthos swung a hand wildly at the folded piece of foil which was inexplicably surrounded by a scattering of small blue flowers. “You were the only one that knew about my past, Athos. And even after everything that happened between us, I trusted you. I thought…” He shook his head. “Nah. It doesn’t matter what I thought. What was I? Some kind of game? Some witty social experiment to laugh about with your dealer mates? How much can you fuck with the poor black junkie before he cracks? You fucking prick.”

Ashen faced, Athos was rooted to the spot, staring at the table. “If I swore to you I didn’t do it, would you please believe me?”

“No.” Porthos stared at the man, wanting him to meet his gaze, but Athos, it seemed, was transfixed by the foil wrap. “No, I wouldn’t. I can't take any more of your lies. You do this to me over again. You fuck with me. You fuck with my head.”

“Think back and you’ll find that I’ve never done anything other than ask you to stay away from me,” said Athos in a muted voice, and when he finally did look up his eyes were full of sharp hatred.

“I never thought you’d stoop so low,” said Aramis, an arm around Porthos as he ushered him towards the door. “But then I suppose I never knew who you actually were until today. Come on, Porthos. Let him enjoy his heroin. After all he does have a vested interest in the stuff.”

By the time they got back to the cottage, Porthos was dead with exhaustion and racked with pain. Aramis undressed him, helping him into a loose pair of sleep pants, and once he was tucked into bed, with some paracetamol and tea, he felt almost human.

“It’s good to finally know for sure,” he said, relieved to discover that he actually meant it. “I don’t understand why Athos would do that other than he’s a fucking sociopath.” He remembered the ice cold hatred in those eyes and shivered.

“You’re well rid,” said Aramis. “Try and get some rest, my friend. Tomorrow’s a new day and all that. We both need to take stock and move on with our lives.”

Porthos slept easily, but he didn’t sleep well. His night was disturbed by endless dreams of cars crashing into giant drifts of powder, a concoction of all the drugs he’d ever taken. In the distance stood Athos, white with cold as a shower of tiny blue flowers fell onto him like confetti. 

He woke with a gasp, his bladder aching, and as he hobbled to the bathroom and peed into the toilet bowl, something began to niggle at him: a name, a face, something he’d overlooked. Too tired to care, he took a couple more paracetamol and fell back into a sleep that was thankfully less fraught this time.


	23. Chapter 23

After a few days of bed rest, Porthos felt well enough to take over the living room, playing endless games on PlayStation and eating his get well chocolates. He’d decided to limit his fluid intake, because going up and downstairs all the time was not easy with a bloody cast, but other than that he was doing okay.

He was also much calmer than he expected to be, probably because the manic frenzy of the last few months was finally over. There were no crying jags and bouts of loneliness like there had been in December. No yearning to stare out of the window to watch for a glimpse of Olivier. No panic attacks over what was going on at the Manor. 

He was also coping better than he thought he would after after revealing his tainted past to Aramis. That perma-blanket of fear had lifted; he was no longer worried about his ugly childhood coming back to haunt him. It had happened. He’d dealt with it. More importantly he hadn’t fallen to his knees and sucked in a lungful of heroin fumes.

Aramis was a prop: the best friend he could ever wish for. Even dealing with his own problems he was still there for Porthos every step of the way. 

“Any news on whether you’re a father to be?

"Not a whisper. I've not even had a text from her," said Aramis, putting the final touches to a lamb biryani and chucking it in the oven. "D'Artagnan's coming over tonight, and I'm going to tell him what's been going on."

"D'you want me to make myself scarce?" said Porthos, throwing down his controller in disgust at losing a life. "I'm sure I could hobble over to the pub. I fancy a pint."

"It might go better if you were here," said Aramis, raising his eyebrows hopefully. 

"Don't be a chicken," grinned Porthos. "You two need to talk, and I'll only be over the road if you need me to mediate."

It was good to go upstairs and get showered with the intention of doing something more than eat snacks and play games. He must have put on at least ten pounds during the past three weeks and was feeling it around his gut. It didn't help that he'd given up on the idea of real clothes and had resigned himself to sweatpants for the duration.

Wearing his best new tracksuit--shaved, preened and ponced--he said goodbye to a nervous Aramis and nipped across the road on his crutches. The snow had finally melted and the weather was now unseasonably warm for February. Britain was a ridiculous country.

"I've missed this place," he said, sighing blissfully as Remi grinned and passed him a pint of nectar.

"I'm sure you could have limped over here sooner," said the landlord.

"Yeah, but I got lazy," admitted Porthos, patting his slight curve of a belly. "Not that I think beer will help matters, but at least I'm out of the house."

"I'm sure Aramis would have brought you in a wheelbarrow," smirked Remi. "We could've all had a laugh then."

"Very funny, mate," grinned Porthos.

"Have you asked the hospital for a walking cast?" said a voice from beside him, and Porthos turned to see the smiling face of Alice.

"Walking what?" he said. "I've never heard of one."

"Mention it at your next appointment. You'd be able to go back to work if you had one and there are loads of easy treks to go on around here. You don't need to be a gym bunny or a mountain biker to keep fit."

Porthos was slightly offended, to be honest. He had a small paunch that would soon disappear once he was free from his plaster prison, and he was hardly what you'd call obese. "I'm not that out of condition," he said. 

Alice laughed. "Men. You're all the same with your fragile egos. The school breaks up for half term on Friday, so if you get a new cast sorted by next week then I'll gladly go with you on some of those walks. The weather’s lovely so we should make the most of it."

Porthos remembered those New Year kisses and forgave Alice her bluntness. "I'd like that a lot," he said. "How about we go to the cinema tomorrow?"

"That would be fun," she said with a smile and she picked up a tray of drinks. "I must take these over to the girls, or they'll think I've been kidnapped. I'll meet you here at six."

Sitting on a bar stool, his leg resting comfortably on the brass footrail, Porthos spent a very pleasant evening at the Cocks. He even managed a round of darts, though he was a bit unbalanced and his aim was well off. Pool, however, was a different matter, and as he sprawled laughing across the baize Aramis arrived to rescue him and takeover, making his shot with ease. 

Showing off, Aramis then potted the rest and handed the cue to Jacques with a nonchalant grin. "That's how it's done, boy."

“Big headed bastard,” laughed Jaques.

"Thanks, mate." Porthos clapped him on the shoulder, almost falling over in the process. "How did it go with the kid?"

Buying a round for them, Aramis guided a rather wobbly Porthos back to his barstool. "Not bad. He understood and he said he respected my decision to stick by Anne."

Porthos was far from surprised. D'Artagnan was a nice lad, and it wasn't as if he and Aramis had been anything but upfront with each other from the beginning. "But you didn’t get to fuck him tonight?"

"No, but there is the _possibility_ of a fuck," laughed Aramis and his face lit up.

Porthos was amazed that he still couldn't see the obvious. "You really are a pair of pillocks."

Aramis’ expression turned serious. "I don't know if I ought to tell you this, but you're bound to find out from someone. D'Artagnan told me that Monsieur le Comte has fallen off the wagon in style. He's practically incoherent most of the time."

Porthos experienced a slight sense of sadness, but other than that he felt no huge rush of emotion. It certainly explained why Constance had been downhearted when she last came to visit. Why they'd both been guarded in conversation. "I can't say I'm particularly surprised."

"Me either," said Aramis. "You've no overwhelming desire to go nurse him back to sobriety?"

"Not at all," said Porthos and it wasn't pretend this time. He hadn't been moping, or having surreptitious wanks reliving the good old days. The guy was a psycho. He'd been bitterly hurt by him and it was over. "In fact I'm finally going out with Alice tomorrow," he said with a bright smile.

"Excellent news, my friend," said Aramis, draining his glass and waving it in the air. "Another pint please, Remi. I need to catch up with this drunken bum."

"Hello, boys," said Constance as she came back with the tray. "You both look full of the joys of spring."

If only the same could be said about her. "You don't," said Porthos bluntly. "Constance, please don't worry too much about Olivier. It's his life, and if he wants to fuck it up then that’s up to him."

"I told him as much yesterday," said Constance with a frown. "I can't keep going there. I think I'm going to talk to the owner of Sunnybrook and arrange to stable Shandy with them."

Porthos felt a twinge of guilt. "Maybe I _should_ go and see him," he said, but Constance shook her head.

"He's totally obsessed with some woman. Never gives her a name but he goes on and on about her. I'm not sure if he's right in the head."

Porthos had been under that same impression for weeks. He had a definite feeling that Olivier was unable to differentiate fantasy from reality. "We've done all we can," he said with a resigned look. "He needs more help than we can offer."

*

By five o'clock next evening, Porthos was a stressed out mess. "Do I cut the seam of my jeans and flap around, or go for this ugly sweatpants look?"

"You're flapping enough already," laughed Aramis. "Go for the trackie bottoms. You're already wearing them, plus it'll make things easy when she wants to grope you in the dark."

Porthos growled at him. "I hate this. I'm dressed as a dork and I can't even drive Alice to the cinema. I can guarantee there won't be any groping, unless it's out of pity on her part."

"You're _being_ a dork," said Aramis, thrusting a cup of tea in his hand. "She knows you and likes you and this has been a long time coming. Enjoy yourself, my friend. You deserve it."

"Thanks, buddy," said Porthos. "What would I do without you? Any news on the paternity front?"

"Anne won't even answer my calls today," said Aramis, his lips thinning to an angry line. "I'm beginning to wonder whether I'm some kind of pawn in a baby making game."

Porthos had been thinking the exact same thing for a while now, but hadn't dared raise the subject. He didn't know Anne, they'd never even been introduced, but he had a feeling she loved her current lifestyle and wouldn't swap it by choice.

"Don't dwell on it," he said. "Focus on all those possibilities with d'Artagnan."

"What you’re trying to say is that while you're off gallivanting at the multiplex I should rub one out," smirked Aramis.

"More like two or three, knowing your sex drive," sniggered Porthos. "But no smoking inside while you're doing it."

"Would I?" Aramis said innocently.

"Yes, you would," said Porthos, punching him on the shoulder. "I'm out of here. Have fun."

"I will," said Aramis gleefully. "I’ve just remembered a folder full of artistic shots I took of d’Artagnan last month."

Leaving Aramis to it, determined not to come back too early, Porthos bounced over the road to the Cocks. He was getting pretty nifty on the crutches, but he'd still cheer loudly the day the cast came off.

Alice was there waiting for him, as pretty as a picture but not overly done up and that made Porthos relax instantly. He'd been worrying that she'd be all dolled up and he'd feel like a tramp beside her.

"You look lovely," he said, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.

"And you're as handsome as ever," she replied.

"In spite of the tracksuit," laughed Porthos.

"I'll forgive you this once seeing as there are extenuating circumstances." She grinned and opened the door for him. "Now hop along."

"Such a funny lady," said Porthos. "I _can_ hit you with my crutch, you know."

"If you try that then you'll fall over so I think I'm quite safe."

It was half an hour's drive to the cinema complex and conversation never faltered for a second. Alice was bright and witty, she was both interested and interesting and they had very similar taste in music and films. They diverged on politics, but that was only to be expected seeing as she was a country girl, born and bred, and he grew up on an inner city council estate.

"David would have hated this," she said. "Me driving him, poking fun all the way. He didn't know how to have a laugh. I think I only married him because everyone always expected we would. Our families were friends and we practically grew up together."

"Is he still living round here?" asked Porthos.

"No, thank God," said Alice, punching the air. "He got an IT job in Cirencester and moved there last week." She looked at Porthos. "That's why I asked you out actually. I think the time was finally right for both of us."

Porthos nodded in agreement. He couldn’t think of anything better than a fresh start with a new girlfriend.

"Constance said you were with someone for a few months, but she never told me who it was."

"Doesn't matter," said Porthos gruffly. "It's well and truly over." He shrugged. "It never really got started to be honest."

Alice looked curiously over at him. "No sex?"

"None to speak of. Just a lot of going and very little coming," smirked Porthos.

Pulling into a bay in the vast car park of the mall they picked a film, paid for the tickets and then wiled away the spare half hour in a coffee shop, drinking frappés.

"These out of town malls are so impersonal," said Porthos. "But I have to admit it's nice to get away from Howerton."

"Where everybody knows your name and your shoe size," said Alice, licking the dregs of cream off her straw.

"Bloody hell! Constance actually did know my shoe size." Porthos laughed and it felt real and good. Uncluttered. Uncomplicated, just the way he'd hoped for.

Alice looked at him, full of fun. "Porthos du Vallon, if you haven't realised by now that Constance knows everything about everybody, then you're not the reporter I thought you were."

The film was good, the meal afterwards better still and before Alice drove home Porthos leaned over sideways to kiss her, his plaster cast jammed into the footwell of the car.

Ten minutes later they were still making out in the car park, her palm pressing against his hard on, his hand inside her bra. 

“Are we teenagers?” Porthos said, moving reluctantly back to his own seat, an amused smile on his face as an elderly couple glared at them in outrage. “I think we must be.”

“I didn’t want to rush you into bed seeing as you’re not used to it.” Alice laughed and tidied her clothing. “Actually we ought to be getting back. I have school tomorrow.”

“I’m glad I know you’re a teacher, otherwise that would sound very wrong.” Porthos kissed her once more. “Thanks for tonight, Alice. It’s exactly what I needed.”

“Me too,” she agreed, pulling out of the car park.

On the way home, they analysed the film some more and then moved on to discuss what they were going to do during Alice’s week off. By the time they arrived in Howerton, Porthos had forgotten they were even on a date.

“G’night,” he said, kissing her softly on the mouth. “I’ll call you.”

“You do that,” said Alice.

Entering the cottage, Porthos was relieved to find Aramis fully clothed and innocently watching telly. 

“How was your evening?” he asked, looking up.

“Really good,” said Porthos. “Really easy.” When Aramis raised his eyebrows, Porthos grinned. “Not that kind of easy.”

“Never mind, mi amigo. There’s always tomorrow,” said Aramis, ducking when Porthos threw a magazine at him.


	24. Chapter 24

Porthos was in fine form. The surgical registrar was happy with his progress, the bones were knitting together well, and she was more than happy to replace the plaster with a walking cast.

It was great to be able to get back to work and exercise his brain as well as his body. His days were spent writing and his free time was filled with Alice.

As promised, they’d spent the half term week walking the easier paths in the area, Alice's parent's labrador, Donal, racing back and forth, clearly confused by the current slow pace of his humans. It was the kind of rural idyll that belonged to Winter Finding and May Fayre: the lifestyle Porthos had been craving.

It had taken them just three dates to move from making out to making love, but a little longer until they began spending almost all of their time together, and Porthos had only recently discovered that waking up with Alice spooned next to him was one of life’s pleasures.

"I love Sundays," he murmured, kissing the back of her neck. "What shall we do today?"

"We could tackle that jungle you call a garden," she said sleepily. "March is a brilliant time for planting.”

Porthos liked the it just the way it was: secret and rambling. "I'd much rather tackle your garden," he said, his fingers burrowing and rubbing tiny circles until she was moaning softly and pressing back against him. "How about we spend all morning in bed and then go to the pub for lunch?"

She turned, wrapping herself around him then taking his cock into her, and as they rocked together Porthos could hear the distinctive sounds of Aramisian sex noises coming from the master bedroom.

"Is that what I think it is?" she giggled.

"Yep," grinned Porthos, wondering who Aramis had in his bed. "Best go with the flow."

"You mean we have to orchestrate with them?" Alice was laughing properly now.

Matching the other couple for pace and vocalisation began as a game, but gradually turned into a morning of pretty amazing sex and as Alice finally clenched around him Porthos slammed into her, finishing off with series of staccato thrusts.

"Better than gardening?" he asked, propping himself on an elbow.

"Much better." She smiled at him. "Though we _can_ do both, you know."

"At the same time? Now that would be interesting." Porthos defended himself as Alice hit him with her pillow.

With Aramis and partner still very definitely at it and Alice less than inclined to leave bed, Porthos had first go at the shower and, after throwing on his Sunday worst clothes, he went downstairs to make a start on breakfast.

Appearing on cue, just as the toaster popped, Alice peered into the kitchen. "Anything I can do?” she asked.

“Nope, everything's in hand," he replied. "Just take these to the table,” he said passing her a plate and a bottle of ketchup.

"You are the best boyfriend ever," said Alice as she dug into her scrambled eggs on toast. "Oh spicy."

"If you don't like it then I can make something else," said Porthos, glad that he hadn’t gone to town and made the huevos rancheros he'd been considering.

"I like it," she said. "It was just unexpected. I'm a bit conservative in my cooking, I’m afraid."

"Then I'll have to educate your taste buds," grinned Porthos, turning round to see what the noise was behind him and discovering two men bounding down the stairs, surprisingly full of energy. "Here come my favourite boys. Scrambled eggs for two coming right up." He was ridiculously pleased to discover that his best mate had been reunited with d’Artagnan last night.

"You're a star," said Aramis, curling his arms around his boyfriend. "Morning, Alice."

"Hi," she said, glancing up for a moment and then burying her nose back in the Sunday Times supplement.

"So?" Porthos raised an eyebrow. "Tell me everything. I need to be updated."

"We're celebrating," said Aramis with a wink. "I'm off the hook. Honestly, I know it sounds terrible, but I've never been so happy in all my life."

"That was a fuck load of celebrating you were doing up there in the bedroom," laughed Porthos. “Quite literally.”

"There will be more," said d'Artagnan. "I can guarantee it." He turned Aramis’ face towards him then kissed him thoroughly. "God, I've missed this. I've missed you."

From out of nowhere Porthos was hit by a sudden pang of longing. "Keep this quiet for now, love," he said, giving Alice a peck on the cheek as he passed her on his return journey to the kitchen. "Things are a bit complicated in Aramis World."

"It sounds like it," she said with an awkward smile.

After a lazy morning spent watching sport on the telly and reading the papers, the four of them strolled across the road to the Cocks. The massed ranks of hanging baskets outside the pub were a palette of multicolours. They were dripping with so much water that Porthos narrowly avoided getting a second shower of the day as he weaved a path under them, ducking his head to avoid the trailing ivy. 

"See how lovely flowers can be in the spring," said Alice with a pointed look.

"My girl here wants us to do something with our garden," explained Porthos.

"What's wrong with our garden?" said Aramis indignantly.

"It's perfect the way it is," agreed d'Artagnan.

"I give up," sighed Alice as they wandered up to the bar. “Why should I care if you can’t see past the crop of ten foot weeds.”

"Good afternoon, folks. Four roasts and a round of the usuals?" said Remi. 

"On the nose, buddy," said Porthos with a smile of contentment, loving everything about life, except for his bloody broken leg.

While they were waiting for the food and Aramis and d’Artagnan were out in the beer garden, Porthos and Alice cuddled up on the bench seat.

“How long have they been together?” asked Alice.

“Aramis and the kid? Since Winter Finding, pretty much,” said Porthos. “They’re crazy about each other, although I still have to convince them of that.”

“They’re very full on,” said Alice, watching the couple through the doors as they kissed themselves stupid in a secluded corner. “So much for keeping things quiet. Will they be at the cottage much?”

“I expect so,” grinned Porthos. “D’Artagnan lives with his mum, so be prepared for a lot of disturbed nights and synchronised sex from now on.”

“We’ve always got my place if we need some alone time,” said Alice.

“We have,” agreed Porthos, although he wasn’t terribly keen as she lived a few miles out of town in the end cottage of a row of terraced almshouses, which made getting to work that bit more awkward. He loved being able to crawl out of bed and into the office. It was like being a student again. “Great, lunch is here. I’ll go get the boys.”

They were just finishing off huge plates of beef and yorkshires when a commotion broke out at the bar. 

"Poor man," said Alice, peering across the room. “He’s a sad specimen.”

Porthos looked over to see who she was talking about and immediately wished he hadn’t, hating what he was witnessing. Olivier, no, he did a rethink. _Athos_ was here, barely able to stand, propping himself on the bar and demanding a drink from Remi, who was refusing point blank to serve him. As the argument grew more heated Porthos and Aramis exchanged glances and stood up. 

"You stay here with Alice," Aramis told d'Artagnan. "We'll sort him out."

"But-" said d'Artagnan, staring at them both with sad, brown eyes. 

"No," interrupted Aramis with a firm shake of the head. “You’ll only get upset.”

"He's a friend," explained Porthos in a grim voice when Alice looked askance at him. "Aramis and I'll take him home and be right back. We won’t be long."

It was worse seeing Athos up close. He was haggard and unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot and his clothes were grubby. "You’ve had more than enough, so stop making an arse of yourself," snapped Porthos, and as the fight went out of the man and he slumped listlessly across the bar they managed, between them, to haul him out of the pub.

"I'll get the car," said Aramis. "It'll be easier than dragging him across the road in this state." Leaving Porthos to babysit, with Athos propped against him on the bench, he hurried off to the cottage to fetch his keys.

"Stop doing this," hissed Porthos, angry at Athos, angry at himself for caring so much when it was pathetic to do so. "Do you want to be a laughing stock? Yes? Because that's what you’re becoming: a dirty old drunk."

"But you don' understand. She'll never stop," Athos slurred. "She'll never get her claws out of me ‘til I'm dead. She hates me."

"Then, whoever she is, I'm sure she'll be over the moon to see you in this state," said Porthos. "You disgust me, so I’m pretty certain you’d disgust her too.”

Even when those eyes lost their vacancy, filling instead with tears of despair, Porthos didn’t relent. Addiction, at its lowest point, terrified him. To be confronted by it brought back the past in all its vivid horror. “Pull yourself together and stop behaving like a prat. Show some bloody pride.”

Just as Aramis was about to pull up, a Land Rover screeched into the parking space ahead of him, the driver ignoring the Latin gesture of annoyance that came as a response to their near collision.

“You fucking idiot,” she hissed as she slammed out of the vehicle, striding around to open the passenger door. “My phone is not a damn Bat Signal for pissheads. If you decide to go on a bender then, in future, do it without bothering me.” Approaching Athos, she slapped him briskly around the face. “On your fucking feet and into the car, so we can get the hell out of here before there’s trouble.”

“I jus’-” he muttered, pushing himself unsteadily to standing.

“Shut up and do as you’re told.” She guided him into the Land Rover and, once he was belted in safely, she looked back at Porthos and Aramis with the most unexpectedly demure smile on her face. “Thank you, boys," she said in a genteel voice. "I’ll take it from here.”

They watched in dual confusion as the Land Rover hared off up the High Street and disappeared out of sight. 

“Well, that was even odder than usual,” said Aramis eventually. “Which is saying something for the Comte.”

“I know her,” said Porthos. She may have been dressed in fatigues rather than a party dress, but the blonde woman with the acerbic tongue was definitely the same one who’d been talking to Athos in the study during the Christmas party. She must be the one with the claws.

“Well, who is she?” said Aramis.

“I don’t _know_ her exactly,” qualified Porthos, “but I’ve seen her once before at the Manor. He calls her Nin and she knows his real identity.”

Aramis frowned. “Why does that name ring a bell?”

Porthos shrugged. “Don’t know, mate. It doesn’t with me.”

“Anyhow, let’s stop dwelling on our rat arsed member of the nobility and his new sidekick,” said Aramis. “We have a lovely pair of very ordinary, and I mean that as a compliment, people waiting for us in the pub and I intend to make the most of it.”

Slipping an arm around Porthos' waist, Aramis helped him back inside and, despite not needing the help, he was glad of the support. Being tough with Athos had hurt more than it should have done, and he was left feeling shaky and upset.

“You were quick,” said d’Artagnan as they sat down at the table. “What happened?”

“A foul mouthed guardian angel turned up to help him.” Aramis waved at Remi to line up the drinks.

“Constance?” asked Alice.

“No, this was someone new and even more foul mouthed,” said Aramis. “Anyway the Comte is safely back at the Manor and all’s right with the world, so let’s get on and enjoy Sunday while it’s still with us.”

“You okay, Porthos?” said Alice, slipping her hand into his.

“Yeah, fine,” he said, squeezing her fingers reassuringly. “I just hate seeing anyone getting themselves into that kind of state.”

“Especially a friend,” she said.

“Especially a friend,” agreed Porthos quietly.


	25. Chapter 25

With his leg finally released from its prison sentence, Porthos could and actually did jump for joy. It was a sad attempt--he already knew he needed to put some effort in to get his muscles back into shape--but it was a jump nonetheless. 

“I have a happy boyfriend,” said Alice when he picked her up from work in Aramis’ Citroën, stopping at the roadside to give her a smacking kiss as soon as they were away from prying eyes.

“You have the happiest boyfriend in the world,” agreed Porthos with a whoop of joy. “I can drive. I can swim. I can shower without falling over. There’ll be adventures happening in the bedroom that you’ve never even dreamt of.”

“Sounds fun." She laughed. "And possibly a little bit scary.”

“I can finally collect my new car,” said Porthos, his eyes lighting up. “Why does it have to be a Golf? I'd rather have something that’ll stick to icy roads in the winter.”

“They haven't made one of those yet,” smiled Alice. "Just drive really slowly around the bends.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Porthos slung his arm around her. “Talking of plans what do you fancy doing, love? Where shall we go?”

“It’s a gorgeous day so let’s have a picnic by the river,” said Alice. “I need to relax after several hours of very boisterous six year olds, plus playground duty at lunch time.”

“A picnic it is,” agreed Porthos. “The car’s a bit redundant then.”

“It is,” said Alice, “but at least you’ve proved you can still drive.”

They stopped at the supermarket to buy some supplies and then set off for the water meadows. Alice was right; it was a beautiful afternoon for a walk. The sun was sparkling off the crests of water and the trees were bright with spring green. 

“Look,” said Alice, pointing to the outer edges of the woods that were coloured in blue as if a kid had been busy with a crayon. “Forget me nots. Aren’t they beautiful? And so early this year.” 

She picked a frond of tiny flowers and passed it to Porthos, who froze on the spot, instantly transported back to the kitchen of the Manor, his hopes and dreams smashed to smithereens around him. He'd never understood why there were blue flowers in the envelope and he still didn't have a clue, but, whatever the reason, they definitely came from these plants. Forget me nots, Alice had called them and, weirdly enough, there was something about them which sparked off a memory. A face. A picture. Something.

“Porthos. _Porthos_ , where have you gone?” Alice poked him in the ribs. "Let's cross the footbridge and see what fish are in the river. Or we could play Pooh sticks, though I suppose it's not really wide enough. What do you think?"

"What?" said Porthos, who was still trying to connect dots in his head. "Sorry," he added when she pursed her lips. "I was thinking about a story I'm working on."

"Never mind," said Alice with a resigned smile. "We'll just hike a few miles to clear your mind and counteract the carbs we'll be eating later."

They walked for a couple of hours then stopped on the riverbank to eat their picnic, chucking bits of food into the water and watching the fish emerge to swallow them. Having finished their picnic, they dozed in the long grass, basking in the early evening sunshine, and after a prolonged spell of utter relaxation it was time to head back to Howerton.

"D'you mind if we stay at mine tonight?" said Porthos. "I need to do some research for work."

"Just pick up your laptop," said Alice as they strolled along the footpath.

Porthos frowned. "I'd actually like an evening at home," he said. "I haven't seen Aramis for days and he'll be getting stroppy."

"He's a grown man, not a child," said Alice.

"He's my best mate," said Porthos, narrowing his eyes. "And he's had a difficult few months."

"Don't you see enough of him at work?" Alice glanced sideways. 

" _Alice_." Porthos frowned. "I want to spend a night in my own home. Is that too much to ask?"

It was the closest they'd come to an argument, and she grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. "Of course it's not and I'm being selfish. Yours it is."

There was no one in when they got back to the cottage, and whilst Porthos caught up on his washing and a bit of housework, Alice had a nose around.

“Why don’t you ever wear this watch?” she asked as she waved the Breitling case over the bannisters. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s not mine,” he answered, his heart missing a beat. “It’s a present for someone.” It _was_ a present for someone. He supposed he should wear it rather than leave it in his drawer as a sad memento, but it didn’t feel right to do so.

“For your dad?” she asked.

Not in a million years. “Something like that,” he answered.

“I’ll put it away then,” she said and then traipsed back downstairs to have a hunt around the kitchen. "There's no food in the cupboards," she laughed. "How do you two manage?" 

"I do the shopping and cook when I'm in, but Aramis generally eats out. He's an idle bugger."

"A bugger for sure," giggled Alice and Porthos ignored her and booted up his laptop. "I'll go get us some wine from the shop," she continued. "Any preferences?"

"Whatever you like," said Porthos who was preoccupied, looking up forget me nots on the internet and getting nothing but growing advice and seasonal information. 

He heard the door slam and a little later, when a hand squeezed his shoulder, he assumed it was Alice back from the supermarket. “That was quick, love. Did you get what you wanted?”

“I always get what I want,” said Aramis, kissing the top of his head affectionately. “Hello, stranger. I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination.”

Porthos span around on the wooden seat of the chair, delighted to see Aramis and d’Artagnan looking so loved up. “Hello, guys.” He looked sheepish. “Sorry I haven’t been around much. Alice and I have been busy.”

“I’ll bet you have, you dirty bastard,” smirked Aramis. “Have you tried all her points of entry yet, or just the obvious ones?” He winced with embarrassment as the front door opened and d’Artagnan burst into fits of laughter.

“Hi,” said Alice, looking around at the full living room. “I’m sorry. I only got enough drinks and snacks for Porthos and me.”

“That’s okay.” Aramis threw himself into his armchair, propping his feet up on the coffee table and pulling d’Artagnan onto his lap. “We’ve got tons of beer and plenty to nibble on,” he said nuzzling d’Artagnan’s neck. “He’s a very tasty treat.”

Alice went out to the kitchen to pour the wine then handed Porthos a glass. “I’m going to pop up along to Mum and Dad’s. I haven’t seen them for a while.”

“You _will_ be back?” said Porthos, taking a sip of red and putting it back down quickly.

“No. I’ve got some lesson plans to do so I’ll get off home after that.”

“You sure?” said Porthos, placing his hands on her hips.

“Yes. It’ll give you lot a chance to catch up,” she said. “I mustn't monopolise you.”

“You can monopolise me as much as you like,” said Porthos, reeling her in for a kiss, although truthfully he wasn’t too disappointed at the idea of them having a night apart. For a start, he wanted to get to the bottom of this flower business.

After finishing her wine Alice left them to it, hugging Porthos and saying a quick goodbye to Aramis and d’Artagnan who were still cuddled together in the armchair, watching a quiz show.

“She didn't have to run away,” said d’Artagnan. “I’ve got a cricket club dinner to go to, so I’ll be gone in a bit.”

“She’s going to visit her parents,” laughed Porthos. “It didn’t have anything to do with you, you moron.”

"No," said Aramis and Porthos looked up, unsure whether it was a question or a statement.

“Anyway,” d’Artagnan said, once the pregnant pause had ended. “I’m off home.” 

After a minute's worth of snogging sounds from the living room, the front door slammed again. “And then there were two,” said Aramis on his way to the kitchen. “Top up or beer?”

“Beer please, mate,” said Porthos, pushing the wine to one side. The sour smell of red reminded him too much of Athos.

“Oh my god, you’re out of your cast,” said Aramis. “When did that happen?”

“This morning,” said Porthos, with a grin. “I pinched your car this afternoon. I knew you wouldn’t notice.”

“I thought it was in a different place from where I left it,” chuckled Aramis, then he looked at Porthos’ laptop screen. “Alice has got you looking at gardening websites? You really are under the thumb, my friend.” 

Porthos thumped him. “This has nothing to do with Alice.” He retrieved the frond of decidedly limp flowers from his top pocket. “These are the same as the ones that were in the envelope Athos sent me,” he said. “They’re called forget me nots and something about them seems familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s driving me round the twist.”

“Let me have a look.” Aramis grabbed his iPad from the coffee table. “I've got a strange feeling I’ve seen something too.”

Together they sat at the dinette, munching their way through big bags of tortilla chips as they searched the internet for clues on little blue flowers.

After two hours, in which he had learned nothing except how to grow a perfect crop of plants, Porthos stood up for a breather. “This is bloody hopeless,” he said in a disgruntled voice, heading to the kitchen for more beers and crisps.

“Fuck me,” said Aramis suddenly as he leant back on his chair with his mouth agape. “Fuck me blind.” 

“What’ve you got?” said Porthos, pushing Aramis back to upright and peering over his shoulder to look at a picture of a stunningly attractive brunette with chilly green eyes. “Who’s she?”

“You don’t recognise her?” said Aramis. “Well, if you don’t know her, is there anything else in the picture that catches your eye?”

Porthos frowned and shrugged. “No, mate. Nothing.”

“How about this one then?” Aramis said, changing to another softer picture of the same woman. “Look more closely.” 

He switched to another photograph then another, and by now Porthos was getting frustrated. He didn’t know who the woman was; he didn’t see what this had to do with his flowers, and he was about to throw Aramis and his iPad across the room when he spotted the thing he had been missing. It was a necklace in the form of a floret of forget me nots. “Click back,” he said, and there it was again and again and again. She wore it as if it were her talisman.

Aramis switched to a new photo. “And now?”

On the screen was a picture of a younger Athos, crumpled and scruffy, his floppy hair a mess, that omniscient smirk present on his face as it always had been back then. Beside him was the woman, the other half of that notorious power couple, his wife, Milady de Winter.

“Shit,” said Porthos. “Shit.”

“Yep,” said Aramis. “Shit is definitely an appropriate word for this situation.”

"Oh, god." Porthos felt sick as he put two and two together and, over and over again, came up with four as the answer. “I’ve been played, haven't I,” he said in a monotone. “That heroin wasn't about fucking with me." It wasn't hard to get someone’s handwriting forged, if you knew the right people, and she’d have enough examples of his lying around. "She found out about my past and used me to get to Athos.”

“I think you might be right,” said Aramis with a rueful sigh. “And, by the look of things, it worked spectacularly well.”

“It was a spiteful calling card to tell him she knew where he was.” Porthos paced up and down the cottage. “Labarge said they'd thought he was dead.” Nothing about this made any sense whatsoever. “But if they thought he was dead why did he buy a house so close to Richelieu? "I don’t understand. Fuck.” He slammed his fist onto the table in frustration. Milady de Winter was the connection he'd been searching for that linked Athos and Richelieu. It was so obvious. Editors and politicians were notorious bedfellows.

Aramis meanwhile was sifting through folders on his iPad. “These are the photographs of the snowy High Street I took for the paper.” He passed the tablet over to Porthos. “Look at the woman on the left standing by Voguette. I noticed her at the time because she was far too well dressed to live here. Do you recognise her?”

She may have had a scarf covering her head, but those green eyes were instantly recognisable. “Well, if it isn’t Mrs de Winter,” said Porthos. “So, we now know she was in Howerton around the time I had the car accident and received that letter. I expect she and Richelieu have been plotting together.”

“I have a feeling you’ve somehow got yourself mixed up in something really dangerous, my friend,” said Aramis and then he paused and stared at Porthos with a massive amount of concern in his eyes. “The question is do you stay away, or do you jump back into the sewer to play with the rats?”

Enraged that he’d been manipulated by these people, Porthos couldn’t think clearly enough to answer that question yet. “She used me to bring down Athos, piece by fucking piece.”

“I agree,” said Aramis. “But I think she intends to bring him down, with or without you.”

“I should at least go up to the Manor and tell him that I know who sent me the letter.” Porthos sat on the sofa, head in hands. This was making him feel sick. All he’d ever wanted was a job reporting the news, with a little bit of recognition attached and a nice fat paycheck at the end of the month. None of this nonsense. “He asked me to believe him and I refused to even listen.”

“No one would have believed him under those circumstances. Not with a chequered past like his.” Aramis sat next to him, an arm draped around his shoulders. “Porthos, are you happy with Alice?”

Porthos mulled over the question. He’d lived through twenty years of high drama and it had damn near killed him. With Alice as his girlfriend life was comfortable and he enjoyed every second of it. There might be a spark missing, but that was surely a sacrifice worth making. “Yeah, I am,” he said and meant it.

“Then stay away from the Manor and forget all of this ever happened,” said Aramis. “Please.”

“But I need to speak to Athos first,” said Porthos. It wouldn’t be fair not to tell him that he knew the truth.

“Think about it carefully. If you do so you might be putting him at greater risk than he is already,” said Aramis. “You don’t know what's going on and, in my opinion, it’s best you stay clear. The way he begged us to in the first place.”

Porthos may have understood the validity of what Aramis was saying, but he wasn’t convinced by it. His night was restless, filled with convoluted dreams in which his former lover was repeatedly torn apart and fed to a two headed serpent, its jaws dripping bright blue venom. He woke less convinced than ever: tired, fractious and missing the comfort of arms around him.

It was only when he bumped into Constance next morning that his nerves were calmed, his conscience eased and his volatile mind made up.

“Morning,” he said with a smile, happy to see her looking bright eyed and full of spring time cheer. “How are you? How’s the horse?”

“We’re both very well, thank you for asking,” she said. “Shandy’s up at Sunnybrook Stables now and loving the attention.”

Porthos steeled himself to ask the next question. “And Olivier? Is he okay?”

“Yes,” she said with a nod. “He’s fantastic. Back on the wagon and doing great. He had a friend staying with him for a while and she seemed to gee him up no end. Bit of a spiky girl, but she helped and that’s all that matters.”

“You see him a lot then?” said Porthos.

“I do,” said Constance. “I still go riding with him most days. As a matter of fact I’m about to collect Shandy and hack up to meet him .”

“And there’s been no more trouble from Labarge?” asked Porthos.

Constance shook her head. “Nope. None as far as I can see. All’s good, darling. We can both stop fretting.”

“Thank god,” said Porthos, his spirits lifting and sinking, all at the same time. Had he been looking for an excuse to see Athos?

“I’d ask if there was a message to pass on, but that wouldn’t be at all sensible under the circumstances,” said Constance and she smiled at Porthos. “Chin up, my love. I’ll see you soon for a cup of tea and a proper chat. Take care now.”

“Will do. See you,” he said, watching as she climbed into her little car and drove off up the High Street. As he raised a hand to wave goodbye he was left with a lingering memory of that last message he'd come so close to asking her to pass on. _Tell him I love him_.


	26. Chapter 26

It may have been Constance that put Porthos' mind at rest, but, just three weeks later, it was a phone call from her that set everything awry again.

It was late in the afternoon and he and Aramis were stuck in the office, trying desperately to construct _something_ of interest for a dangerously dull Easter edition of the paper, when his mobile disturbed their concentration, chiming loudly from his jacket pocket.

"Porthos." Constance's voice was broken with tears. "I didn't know who else to call. I don't know what to do. Please help. Oh god, I don't know what to do. It's Olivier. I think he's been shot."

"Fuck." All Porthos could think of was that pistol, locked away safely in the desk drawer. "Don't panic. Call an ambulance and we'll meet you at the Manor." 

Aramis, meanwhile, was mouthing "What?" at him and gesticulating wildly.

"No," sobbed Constance. "We're in the bluebell wood, by the motte and bailey. Not too far from the old yew tree. You know where I mean? I think they're still around. Porthos, I can hear motorbikes. I'm so scared."

Panic taking over Porthos stood up, waving his hand to get Aramis to follow him and throwing him the keys to the Golf. "Athos has been shot."

Aramis leapt into action, collecting the office first aid kit and a brand new pack of cleaning cloths then racing to the door. "Ask her if he's conscious?"

"Is he awake, darling?" said Porthos to the distraught girl as he climbed into the passenger side of the car.

"No," said Constance. They lost her for a moment as the Bluetooth connected. "...get near him."

"You need to staunch the flow of blood," said Aramis. "Use some clothing as a pad and press down on it hard."

"I just told you, Roger won't let me anywhere near him." She was hysterical. "Porthos, I can still hear motorbikes. They're going to kill us. I know they are."

"They’re just threatening you and hoping you’ll leave him alone,” said Porthos. “They won’t dare harm you. We're almost at the Manor now.”

"Hurry," said Constance, her breath ragged. "Hurry, please hurry. We're at the east side of the motte."

"I know where you mean," said Aramis and as soon as they were parked he was out of the car, rucksack slung over a shoulder as he pelted across the fields and towards the woods. "Bring that blanket," he yelled. 

The muscles in his leg still less than their best, Porthos struggled to run, finding it hard to stay on his feet across the uneven ground, but he managed to keep Aramis in his sights. 

The tableau that greeted him, as he rounded the curve of the path, was a lot more distressing in nature than a legless Athos falling over in the pub. He was starting to hate the colour blue. To see the man lying unconscious in a blood spattered bed of bluebells was Shakespearian tragedy at its worst. 

Roger was leaning over Athos, nosing at him and encouraging him to use his neck as a prop. The horse was upset and angry, and as soon as Aramis approached he flew at him, his teeth bared.

"Get this damn animal away from here," Aramis hissed.

"I can't," sobbed Constance, hanging onto Shandy for support. "He won't let me within six feet of him."

Porthos was never terribly fond of horses, but he knew he had to do something. Athos was waxy grey, bleeding from a shoulder wound to his left side and, by the look of things, they couldn't hang about waiting for the gelding to calm down.

Approaching Roger slowly but with a front of determination, Porthos stared the animal in the eye, trying not to reveal how frightened he was feeling. "Come on, feller," he said, adopting the same gentling tones that Athos always used. "Quiet now. You know we're here to help him."

Roger snuffled at Athos insistently and stamped his hoof, but then he lifted his head and turned to Porthos and, just like his owner, all the fight suddenly drained out of him. Porthos patted his neck, taking a pack of mints from Constance and feeding him the sweets as he watched Aramis tend to Athos. "How's he doing?"

"Not brilliant," said Aramis. "It's a perforating wound, which is good, but he's lost a lot of blood." Athos groaned. "Athos, can you hear me?" said Aramis. "That's it. Open your eyes."

"What's going on? Hurts."

Constance took over Roger duties and Porthos knelt beside Athos. "You've been shot, buddy boy. I'm calling an ambulance."

"No." Athos' eyes widened at the sound of motorbike engines. "You can't. Just get me home."

"Who's Athos?" said Constance, her face screwed up in confusion.

"He's Athos," replied Porthos in a gruff voice, but it was hardly a suitable moment for lengthy explanations.

"I'll be okay. I'll call someone." Athos looked around him in desperation. "Porthos, please. Don't do this."

The afternoon was quickly losing ground to evening and they couldn't stay out here when it was dark: not with Labarge and his thugs out to cause trouble. "We'll take him back to the cottage," said Porthos. A decision needed to be made, and it was the only one that he could come up with at short notice.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Aramis. "He needs proper medical attention."

"And then the police will be called in, as they have to be with all gun shot wounds and suspicious injuries." Porthos held out his hands. "You know we can't let that happen."

"All I know is that I can't look after him with a fucking first aid kit," snapped Aramis.

"Therese works at the pharmacy. She'll get us what we need," said Constance, her practical nature coming to the fore. "I'll take both horses back to Sunnybrook. I’m sure they’ll have room for Roger. I’ll meet you back at the cottage later."

"Thank you," said Athos in a weak voice as the two men lifted him onto the blanket. "Porthos, I need you to go to my desk and get the laptop and the folder from the top drawer."

"Not now," growled Porthos.

"It's important." Athos' breath was getting more and more laboured. "Please."

"He’ll go into shock soon if we don’t get the bleeding sorted," warned Aramis.

" _Please_ ," said Athos. "The keys are in my pocket along with a phone number. If anything happens to me then-"

" _Shut up._ " Frowning, Porthos rummaged around and found the keys and the folded piece of paper. "Aramis, you carry him back to the car. I'll get his stuff."

"Thank you," said Athos again, wincing as Aramis hefted him into his arms.

Picking up the rucksack, Porthos ran for the house, charging through the kitchen door and into the study. Unlocking the drawer, he rammed the laptop and the thick dossier into his bag and then, as an afterthought, took the semi automatic and the dozen clips that were there. He was now in possession of an unlicensed firearm. It was just like the old days.

"Get a move on," yelled Aramis as Porthos locked the back door.

The sounds of bike engines were close by again and, getting into the backseat of the car, Porthos took the shivering Athos from Aramis' arms.

"Keep that material pressed tight against the wound, front and back if you can manage it," said Aramis as he climbed into the driver's side and started the car. "Now all we have to do is get him into the cottage without anyone seeing and from then on it's a simple matter of keeping him alive."

"Sorry to be such a nuisance," murmured Athos and it was such a ridiculous thing to say under the circumstances that Porthos couldn't help but laugh. "Perhaps it would have been." He coughed and heaved in a breath. "It would have been easier if I'd fallen off that ladder."

"It would." Porthos held the wad of material tight against him. "If only you'd been more considerate that day."

"I do apologise." The corner of Athos' lips quirked upwards. "Porthos, the telephone number is for Ninon. If something happens to me you need to get the hard drive and the dossier to her immediately. It's vitally important. You must do it."

Porthos held the man tighter. "You’re not going to die. It'll be hard enough to explain to my girlfriend why there's a wounded man in my bed. It'd be nigh on impossible to explain away a dead one."

Athos stared at him. "You will get the evidence to Ninon?"

"I promise," said Porthos, a lump rising to his throat.

With dusk turning to darkness, Howerton was closing for the night, and it wasn't too difficult to wait for a quiet moment then carry Athos indoors and up the stairs, mindful of his head and his injured shoulder on the way.

"You've bled all over my new car, so you may as well bleed all over my sheets," said Porthos with a forced smile as he laid him on the bed.

"Help me get him undressed," said Aramis, placing a couple of pillows at the end of the bed and lifting his legs onto them.

His best mate was brisk and efficient, with no time for humour, and Porthos felt as if he was here with a stranger.

"Let's see how bad this is," Aramis continued as they stripped away the blood soaked jacket and shirt. 

Helping to turn Athos onto his right side, Porthos could see the extent of the damage from the exit wound. 

"This really needs stitching, but all we can do is hope that the bleeding will stop of its own accord,” said Aramis. “The good news is the arteries are fine or he’d be dead by now. Fetch me a bowl of water and the first aid kit from downstairs."

“I’m cold,” said Athos and Aramis pulled the quilt up over his legs.

“I thought you were a tough guy, not a whinger,” said Porthos on his way to the landing.

After carrying up the bowl and the first aid box, Porthos then went to the bathroom to fetch a strip of paracetamol and a glass of water.

“Bring me that new pack of cloths from the cabinet,” called Aramis.

Returning once again, Porthos sat beside Athos, supporting him in the bed and holding his hand as Aramis cleaned the wound, dressing it with sterile pads and tape then bandaging it as best he could.

“You’re a lucky man,” said Aramis. “The bullet went through the fleshy part of your left arm and the bleeding seems to be under control. There will be some significant muscle damage. How’s your head? Did you hit it hard?”

“Don’t know,” said Athos. He seemed more sluggish than he had been and Porthos pulled the quilt up around him.

“You don’t remember what happened?” said Aramis, getting his phone out of his pocket and switching on the torch app to shine a light into Athos’ eyes.

“I was out riding.”

“You know who I am?” asked Aramis.

“A pain in the arse photographer.” The corner of Athos’ mouth tugged upwards.

“And he is?” Aramis pointed across the bed.

“Porthos,” said Athos, gripping his hand tightly for a second and Porthos automatically squeezed back.

“Your pupils are normal and I see no signs of concussion,” said Aramis and he sounded more world weary than Porthos had ever heard him. “But I’m far from happy about this, and if I get any less happy then you’re going straight to hospital. Damn the consequences; I’m not having you on my conscience. Been there, done that, bought the fucking t-shirt.” Lifting Athos up a little, Aramis passed him some painkillers and the glass of water, from which he drank greedily. “Steady now. Slowly.”

“You okay, mate?” said Porthos. He and Aramis would be having a long overdue chat in the near future. He remembered the man’s words to him when he’d confessed his own shameful past: _We've all done bad things and had bad things done to us._

Aramis nodded and then smiled, but it was lacking the usual level of luminance. “I’m going to have a shower and then I’m going across the road for a few pints with d’Artagnan. Don’t forget to cancel your date with Alice. You’ve got a patient to nurse.”

Before Athos dozed off, Porthos helped him to the bathroom, changed the blood stained bed sheets then got him out of his boots and riding breeches and into a pair of sweatpants, which barely stayed up on his narrow hips.

“Bedtime,” said Porthos, helping him get comfortable and then tucking the duvet back around him.

“Is my laptop safe?”

“Just get some sleep,” said Porthos impatiently.

“They will have seen you helping me and they will come here looking for it,” said Athos.

“I’ll find somewhere to hide it,” promised Porthos. “Now sleep.”

Alice wasn’t at all pleased when he cancelled on her at such short notice. They had tickets to see some play at the theatre, and she’d been counting down the days. Trust Athos to get shot at a really awkward time.

“I can’t make it,” Porthos said apologetically. “I’ve got a bloody awful headache and I can hardly stand up.” He hated lying to her, but he couldn’t think of another excuse. “Take one of the girls or your mum.”

“I suppose I could,” she said. “It’s a shame though, because we were both looking forward to it so much.”

“These things happen,” said Porthos. “I’ll call you tomorrow, love.”

Sticking some sausages and chips in the oven, Porthos turned his attention to finding a hiding place for Athos’ stuff. He’d just about given up hope of coming up with anywhere clever, settling for the cupboard under the stairs, when an idea suddenly came to him. There was a mini loft space above the kitchen ceiling, its entrance obscured by the high level units. 

Climbing onto a chair, Porthos opened the hatch and peered inside, making sure there was no evidence of vermin. It was clean and dry and, more than satisfied, he stowed the rucksack deep into the recess. There was no lock, but it was highly unlikely anyone would ever find it if they _did_ come looking, which he very much doubted they would.

After checking on the patient, who was fast asleep, Porthos dished up his dinner and frowned when, rather typically, there was a knock at the door. Not yet used to the idea of harbouring a wanted man he opened up without even bothering to put the chain across, and was relieved to find that it was only Constance standing in the porch.

“How’s he doing?” she said, peering anxiously over her shoulder then stepping inside and shutting the door behind her.

“Okay,” said Porthos. “Aramis said I have to wake him every four hours, so we still have two to go.” He picked up his plate from the kitchen counter and carried it to the dinette. “You don’t mind if I eat, do you? I'm starving.”

“Of course not,” said Constance, taking the seat opposite him. “I won’t even complain when you talk with your mouth full, because, believe me, mister, you’ll be doing an awful lot of talking this evening.”

Porthos chewed thoughtfully on a piece of sausage.

“So,” she continued brightly. “How long have you known that Olivier was Athos de Winter?”


	27. Chapter 27

The sofa was lumpy, small and not fit for purpose as a bed, which was hardly surprising seeing as it was never intended to be one. Porthos was unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, which was useful seeing as he needed to check on Athos throughout the night.

"You have my room," said Aramis, as they met on the landing, the dawn chorus increasing in volume by the second. "I'll take over from here."

"Thanks, mate," yawned Porthos. "I won't be sharing it with d'Artagnan, will I?"

Aramis shook his head and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. "He'll have to know something soon, as will your Alice, but I'm buggered if I know what to say."

"I know." Porthos was lucky. He and Alice spent most of their time at her house, and so he was hoping to keep all this mess from her. Athos was the past; Alice was his future and he didn't want them to collide.

"Once he's out of danger then we'll come up with a cunning plan," said Aramis, clapping Porthos on the back. "Now go and get some kip. You look done in."

His best friend sounded much more like himself today, but Porthos was far from satisfied. "Tomorrow you'll tell me all about how you acquired your medical skills," he said.

"Of course," said Aramis with a wink. "Mañana."

The king size bed, with its soft cotton sheets and fluffy duvet, was sheer heaven. Porthos stretched out to his limits and fell immediately into a deep and dream free sleep. It came as a shock when he was shaken gently awake, what seemed like just minutes later, to discover it was actually nine o'clock.

"I've brought you up a coffee," said Aramis. "I'm going to work. What excuse did you give Alice for missing your date?"

"Migraine," said Porthos, sitting up and reaching for his drink.

"Then I'll tell Treville the same. At least we'll be consistent with our lies."

"How's Athos this morning?" asked Porthos.

"In pain and a bit crotchety," said Aramis. "Only to be expected. He's been to the bathroom and had his medicine and he's asleep again. I've washed those sheets and clothes, so don't forget to put them in the dryer."

"Wouldn't it be better if I go to work and you stay with him?" said Porthos, unsure about nursing a sick man. Unsure of a lot of things.

"Not on your nellie," said Aramis. "This is your mess and le Comte is your patient." He grinned. "Plus, I intend to take d'Artagnan out for an extended lunch and impress on him the wonders of car sex, field sex, sex in a haystack: rural sex in general."

"Shove off then," laughed Porthos, masking the wave of sadness that had swept over him from out of nowhere. "Go have fun. Leave me to be nursey."

"If you're a good boy I'll even buy you the outfit," said Aramis, and with a chuckle he left Porthos to finish his coffee.

Dozing back off for a few more minutes, Porthos awoke with a start to discover it was now eleven o'clock. With that frantic, disaster has struck feeling that only ever came from oversleeping, he leapt out of bed, his bad leg wobbling slightly under the impact, then stuck his head around his own bedroom door to find Athos awake and staring at the wall.

"Everything okay?" asked Porthos.

"I need you to get me a phone," the man said. "One of those cheap, prepay ones."

"You can use mine if you want to make a call. It won't cost anything."

Athos let out this bitter laugh. "Just do what I ask."

Reining in his temper, Porthos changed the subject. "I'll have a shower then I'll make us some breakfast. Anything you fancy?"

Athos shook his head, but then he looked up hopefully. "A cup of tea would be nice."

"You live on liquids," laughed Porthos. "Did your mother ever bother to wean you?"

"Doubt it," said Athos. "She was too busy drinking herself to death." There was a hint of a smirk on his face. "Rather ironic really."

"You _are_ a happy soul today," said Porthos, leaving him to his bad mood and heading for the bathroom.

After a quick wash and brush up, he foraged in the kitchen cupboards, which were pretty much empty, and decided that porridge was the best option. It was either that or mouldy toast.

Carrying a bowl and a mug of tea upstairs, he placed them on the bedside table, and when Athos brushed off his offer of help with a curt, “get off me,” he sat on the edge of the bed and watched the man struggle to sit up.

“Stop being a stubborn git,” he said and helped him anyway. "You really are in a foul temper." 

Athos glared at him. "I've never been shot before. I'll try to be more upbeat about it." Then his expression softened. "Sorry. I hate being an invalid." He reached for his mug of tea and took a sip. “There are things I need to do and I can’t do them in this state.”

“That’s all that’s bothering you?” said Porthos incredulously. “Not getting your chores done? I’d be more concerned about the owner of that gun coming after me again.”

Shrugging in that nonchalant manner of his, Athos put his tea back on the top, and it was then that Porthos plucked up the courage to make a long overdue apology.

“I know it wasn’t you that sent me the heroin,” he said in a low voice. “I should have come to tell you straight away once I figured it out. The blue flowers were the key. It was your wife who was responsible, wasn't it?"

Athos stared at him, his eyes huge and wounded.

“I don’t believe any of it’s true. None of that shit about you. Rent boys or drug dealing,” Porthos continued. “It’s all crap. She set you up, didn’t she, Athos? Her and Richelieu. They wanted to destroy you and they still do.” 

Porthos waited for Athos to say something. _Anything_. He was so still and so silent. Watchful. Wary.

“You swore you hadn’t done it. You asked me to believe you and I should've done.” Porthos reached out awkwardly until his fingers came to rest over Athos’ hand. “I’m sorry.”

Athos jerked away from him. “Go away,” he said in a voice that matched his eyes. “Leave me alone. Go away. Get out.”

“Athos, listen-” All Porthos could think of was the list of the hideous things he’d said to the man.

“Fuck off.”

“The things I-”

“Fuck off. _Please_.”

It was the ‘please’ that did it. A whine of near desperation that was juxtaposed alongside so much anger that, confused and upset, Porthos made his escape, slamming the bedroom door and leaning against the wall to collect himself. His blood pressure was sky high, his fantasy headache was becoming more real by the second, and he felt close to fainting. 

It was then he heard the dreadful sound of racking, broken sobs from inside the bedroom: heaving, desperate waves of misery. He knew all too well how it felt to cry like that, until your body was crumbling from the effort and there was nothing left of you but salt water. 

Sliding down the wall, he buried his head and hugged his knees, needing to go in there and comfort the man, but too afraid to do so. God, he wished so much he could be free from this choke hold Athos had on his heart.

He waited on the landing, frozen in place, until the crying eventually stopped and all was quiet. He waited longer, his headache still pounding, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth were beginning to hurt. He waited, not knowing what else to do.

When he finally crept into the bedroom, Athos was asleep, his face still wet from tears, his breathing jagged and shuddery. Climbing under the duvet, Porthos spooned up against that superheated body, regretting all the times they hadn’t done this in the past when they were almost lovers, almost friends, almost together.

“I would help you if I knew how.” He slept again, curved protectively around the man, careful not to damage his wounded shoulder, and awoke an hour, maybe two hours later to the faraway sound of his phone ringing.

Taking the cold porridge and tea downstairs, he collected his thoughts and hunted for his mobile. The missed call was from Alice and he rang back straight away, eager to ground himself.

“Hello, love,” he said when she answered.

“I just wanted to see how you were,” she said. “I missed you last night.”

“I missed you too. Was the play any good?” He couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.

“Brecht is always good,” said Alice, “even when it’s performed really badly. So, how’s the headache?”

“Rotten,” said Porthos and it was the truth. “I had to have the day off work.” He needed her, the comforting normality of her. “You could come here?” he said, knowing it was a stupid idea, but unable to stop himself from asking.

There was a pause. “I’ll leave you in peace and wait until you’re rampant with health,” she said. “I love it when you’re rampant.”

“I love it too,” said Porthos, feeling better already. “I’ll see you soon, love.”

When Aramis came in from work, as smugly satisfied with life as a well bred stallion, Porthos was watching the telly with his feet up on the table.

“How’s Monsieur le Comte?” Aramis asked, chucking his coat onto the chair and searching in the fridge for some food. Lunchtime obviously hadn't involved eating of any kind. Well, nothing nutrition based anyway.

“He’s been asleep most of the day,” said Porthos. Their few conversations, since the earlier disastrous one, had been somewhat stilted, and since then he’d mostly left him alone. "He hasn’t eaten anything.”

“Not surprising after a trauma like that.” Aramis gave up hunting and put the kettle on instead. “Takeaway for dinner, I think.”

“We’re going to look like takeaways soon,” said Porthos with a sigh.

“Spicy and interesting?” smirked Aramis.

“Greasy and overloaded with fat,” replied Porthos with a glum expression. “I’ll do an online shop tonight.”

“I’m staying in, so I’ll do it and you can go out with the lovely Alice,” said Aramis.

“Thanks, mate, but no,” said Porthos. Today had been as hard on his body as it had been on his soul. “Don’t feel up to it. My imaginary headache has become a reality. Telling lies is a bad thing to do.”

“Are you sure?” said Aramis, looking at him curiously.

“I asked her over, but she said she’d leave me in peace to recover,” said Porthos.

“No surprise there then,” muttered Aramis, getting up to answer the knock at the door and peeking out of the curtain on the way. 

“Constance, darling, you’re a life saver,” Porthos heard him say, looking over his shoulder to see why.

Constance struggled through to the kitchen with a big two handled pot, which she put on the hob to reheat. “It’s just some vegetable soup, but I thought Olivier.” She corrected herself. “I thought Athos might manage some.”

“I’m sure we could all manage some,” said Aramis, following her around hopefully like a starved puppy.

“It’s a good job I made loads then,” she said with a smile. “How is our poor boy?”

“Bad tempered, but mostly tired,” said Porthos. “Being shot must be exhausting.”

“I’ll take this up to him,” sad Constance, testing the temperature of the soup then ladling some into a bowl. “Dish up. I’ll be back in a tick.”

“Aramis,” she yelled moments later. “Come here now.”

Aramis and Porthos made for the staircase, thundering up to the first floor to see what was the matter.

“He’s sick,” said Constance. “Look at him.”

Flushed and sweating, Athos was still asleep but mumbling to himself, rolling over onto his back and seemingly unaware of the injury.

Aramis pulled the covers off him. 

“Try and hold him on his side,” he said to Constance. “I need to examine the wound.”

“He’s burning up,” said Constance.

Porthos watched from the end of the bed: a helpless bystander.

Aramis unravelled the bandaging and removed the dressing then winced. “It’s infected,” he said. “There could be debris inside the wound. I couldn’t exactly irrigate it well under these conditions.”

“What does he need?” said Constance.

“A hospital,” said Aramis dourly.

“And failing that?”

“A general antibiotic: Metronidazole or Amoxicillin. Some decent sized dressings and bandages. Some distilled water. Soluble cocodamols.”

“Give me a while,” said Constance. “I’ll see what I can do. Ring me if you think of anything else.” 

She left the bedroom and Porthos wondered how he'd be able to take over and be useful whilst she was gone, rooted, as he was, to the spot.

Athos sat up, his eyes wide open but glazed. “Tommy, no,” he cried.

Perching next to the man, Porthos was all too aware of the heat emanating from him. “It’s okay. Lie back down.” He looked at Aramis. “Tommy’s his brother. He was in the army. He was killed in Sudan five years ago. Some sort of terrorist attack, I think. Something like that.”

Aramis stopped what he was doing for moment, frozen the way Porthos had been earlier.

"Everything alright?" asked Porthos.

"As it can be under the circumstances," said Aramis. "He's too hot. Help me get these sweatpants off him."

It wasn't a difficult job. They were hardly on him in the first place. "I reckon he should borrow your clothes," said Porthos, hiking the boxers up to allow Athos some dignity.

"Your boyfriend, your clothes," said Aramis with a smirk.

"Ex-boyfriend," corrected Porthos, but the ex stuck in his throat. Ex had too many meanings. He stared down at Athos who was mumbling again, shivering and thrashing. "Where the fuck is Constance? The pharmacy’s two minutes away from here."

"Porthos, he really needs the hospital," said Aramis, and there was a hint of panic in his voice.

"No," mumbled Athos. "Not Tommy. You can't. Why did you? Tommy. Please."

"Hush, darling," said Porthos, catching hold of Athos' flailing hand. "We give her half an hour longer and then we go," he said to Aramis.

Aramis heaved in a deep breath. "Was Tommy his older brother?"

"Four years younger. From what I can tell, Athos pretty much brought him up."

"Jesus," said Aramis, his legs turning to rubber as he sank down onto the bed, rocking forward until his head was in his hands. "Just a fucking kid."


	28. Chapter 28

"I'm here," gasped Constance, out of breath from running. She dropped a plastic carrier bag on the bed. "I'm sorry I was so long. It took Therese and I ages to track down Dr Beanpole. He was playing bowls."

Dr Beanpole was Howerton's septuagenarian GP. Named by the children when he arrived to set up practice, he was the tallest, thinnest man they'd ever seen. Forty years on, shrunken with age and fattened up with country sized roast dinners, the nickname was no longer appropriate, but it stuck firm.

"He wrote us a prescription, bless him, so all is legitimate." She paused. "Except that it's for a very bad cut on his leg. So, what needs to be done?"

"Go prepare the cocodamols," said Aramis. "Porthos, you hold him while I clean and redress this wound."

As Porthos held the sweating, shivering man in his arms, he tried not to think of missed opportunities and consequences.

"Athos, look at me," snapped Aramis. "I need you to wake up and take these tablets." Athos lolled in Porthos' arms. "If you don't then we're driving you straight to hospital."

"Come on, darling," murmured Porthos, his mouth against Athos' ear. "That's a boy," he said as Athos came to and stared at Aramis with eyes that were bright with fever, but a little more cognizant. He took the antibiotics and swallowed them down with a mouthful of soluble painkiller.

"All of it," insisted Aramis, taking the glass from him when he'd drunk the lot then swapping it for water. "Now this."

"I can't," groaned Athos. "Tired."

"Finish it and you can go to sleep," insisted Aramis, and Porthos was amazed when Athos did as he was told.

Settling him back into bed, Porthos swapped the quilt for a sheet that Constance had fetched from the airing cupboard and tucked it around him. "Rest," he said leaning forward, his lips seared by that burning hot forehead. "Now what?" he asked. 

"Now we leave him to sleep and then in four hours we repeat the whole process," said Aramis wearily. "Porthos, I don't like this at all."

"Neither do I, but it’s not as if we have a choice," said Porthos as they left the bedroom.

Once they were downstairs, Aramis produced a bottle of whisky from the cupboard. "I think we deserve a drink after that."

"Not for me, thanks," said Constance who was quickly swallowing some soup. "I have to see to the horses. Plus one of us needs to be in a fit state to drive if..." Her words tailed off, but the meaning was crystal clear.

With Constance now gone, Porthos accepted a glass of scotch from Aramis. "Here's to dull and sleepy towns where nothing ever happens," he toasted with a wry smile.

Aramis chinked his glass. "Did I say that?" His eyes grew darker than ever. "Maybe I was afraid to look beneath the surface."

It was the cue Porthos had been waiting for. "Tell me about Sudan," he said gently.

Startled, Aramis stared at him. "Was it that obvious?"

"I know you pretty well by now," said Porthos, leaning forward to squeeze his shoulder. "You're a brother."

Aramis nodded in agreement. "Jonglei was a bloodbath," he said. "There were so many soldiers, butchered like animals." He looked up. "It was a small peacekeeping force, multinational which, I suppose, is how they kept it from the public, a few deaths here, a few deaths there. No one any the wiser. They went in to stop this bastard of a warlord from slaughtering and enslaving other tribes and got massacred for their efforts."

"Were you in the same squad as Tommy?" asked Porthos.

Aramis shook his head. "My friend Marsac and I were CMT's in the Medical Corps, seconded to the UN. We were the poor suckers sent in to clean up after the attack. We had to sweep up those fucking bodies and put the pieces together so they could be identified. We had to try and keep the few survivors alive. I remember Thomas de Winter. I never connected their names until now. I try not to think of that place.” He looked at Porthos bleakly. "I was there when he died. They all died in the end.”

“All of them,” said Porthos in shock. “What happened afterwards?” he asked, thinking about the darker paintings hanging on the walls of Aramis’ studio. African colours tinged with red. An artist's impression of violence.

“I was medically discharged with PTSD and chose an easy life in Howerton." Aramis smiled. "Treville’s the best of men. He likes to collect lame ducks. My friend Marsac opted for a very different path.” He ran a hand through his hair and gulped down his whisky. "So that's my story. Told you we all have one."

"Mate, that is brutal," said Porthos, pouring them a second drink. "To lame ducks," he said, raising his glass.

"Lame ducks," grinned Aramis, still a shadow of himself, but a little more solid than before.

All talked out, they distracted themselves with Constance’s home made soup and crusty bread, then wasted another hour online grocery shopping. After that, time dragged and Porthos was up and down the stairs like a yoyo, unable to settle to anything.

"You can't keep away," said Aramis, pointing out the obvious.

"I know, I know," said Porthos, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. "He's trouble. Everything about him is dangerous and he's not what I want."

"But?" said Aramis.

"No buts," said Porthos firmly.

Despite those determined words, Porthos spent the night in the bedroom, in bed with Athos, giving him his medicine, when it was due, and settling him back down afterwards.

He cried out for him several times, ‘though Porthos was never entirely sure whether he was fully aware of his presence.

"Porthos, they're going to find Tommy," he said with wild eyes. "You have to hide him from father."

"Go to sleep. I'll look after Tommy." His eyes stung at the false promises, although it was worth it when Athos relaxed against him and fell into a more peaceful sleep.

By morning, the man's fever was on the way down, but an early visit from Constance brought about fresh worries.

"They've ransacked his house," she said in a low voice. "The doors are smashed in and the whole place looks as if it's been hit by a tornado. They're obviously searching for something."

Porthos thought about the bag secreted away in the tiny loft space and was glad he'd come up with a good hiding place. "What were you doing going up there?" he said, angry that she'd put herself in danger.

"I wanted to see if everything was okay," said Constance with a frown. “Someone had to find out what was going on.”

"Well, things clearly aren’t okay,” said Aramis, tense and worried, a hand wrapped around his neck. “Look, we have to carry on as normal. Porthos, you get ready for work."

"I need to be here," said Porthos stubbornly.

"No, you don’t. You're the dedicated one." Aramis smiled at him. "I'm the lazy bastard who spends half the day in his studio, and the other half reading gossip. You must also see Alice afterwards."

Porthos had to admit that it made sense. It would also be safer than spending all his time here.

"One other thing," said Aramis. "I'm going to tell d'Artagnan the truth. He's trustworthy and he'd never want his favourite Count to get hurt."

Porthos, however, was becoming increasingly concerned. Too many people knew of the man's identity already, and it would be easy to slip up. "Hang on a minute," he said. "Do you think that's wise?"

Aramis shrugged. "I think it's essential," he said. "Unless you want me to break up with him again. D'artagnan spends most of his time here."

"Of course I don’t want that to happen, but we ask Athos first," Porthos said firmly. "If he doesn't agree then we make up a cover story."

Listless and quiet from the effects of the infection, Athos didn't appear to care one way or the other. "Do what you like," was his only comment on the subject.

Porthos however was stubborn. "I don't think it's a good idea for anyone else to know what's been going on here, until you get the evidence to Ninon and clear your name.”

It was then that Athos sparked back into life. "Clear my name?" He looked from Porthos to Aramis and back again. "You think this is about clearing my name? I don't have a name I give a damn about, and I don't care about my reputation. This is only about stopping _them_." Flushed with remnants of fever, he reached for the glass of water. "In spite of my best efforts to keep you away, you've landed yourselves in this up to your necks, so you may as well know the truth."

"You're not well enough for this," said Porthos, hating to see him so debilitated.

“Let him talk,” said Aramis. “We have a right to know what kind of mess we're in.”

“You should have stayed safely inside your happy little bubble,” said Athos with a mirthless laugh. “The real world is controlled by greed and corruption and there are people in positions of power--politics, media, finance, the military--who keep the balance tipped firmly in favour of chaos.”

“Conspiracy theories,” said Aramis derisively. “I expected more from you.”

“The thing about conspiracy theories is that they are almost always rooted in the truth,” said Athos. “The fantastical elements are added by the people who don’t want the public to believe them.”

“And Richelieu and Milady are two of these people?” said Porthos, wondering, once again, about the state of Athos’ mental health.

“They work together on occasion, but they’re far from being a team. Richelieu is old school and unrefined in his ways. He prefers to bludgeon his enemies. My wife is different. She’s the most dangerous person I have ever met. They do, however, have the same goals."

He stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. 

"When I was working in Afghanistan, I discovered that a deputation of Afghani farmers had been turned away by the British government. All they wanted to do was sell their opium to us to make medical grade morphine so that they no longer had to deal with the tribal warlords. I started investigating, and it was my downfall.”

“Small potatoes,” said Aramis.

“Small potatoes to begin with,” agreed Athos, shifting around to try and get comfortable. “But then I began to look at Africa. Why do the people in such an incredible untapped continent suffer so much?”

“Because of endless civil wars,” said Porthos with a shrug.

“Indeed, but why are there endless civil wars and genocides?” asked Athos.

Porthos shrugged again.

“Because that is the way that the countries and the people can be exploited by the ones in charge. There is corruption going on that cannot be seen because it is too enormous and far reaching to be believed. It’s not about power on a level that the ordinary person can comprehend.”

Aramis sat on the bed next to him. “It’s hard to lose a brother, Athos,” he said in a gentle voice. “Especially one you’ve been particularly close to. It can shake things out of perspective.”

“You know nothing about my brother.” Athos stared him down. “You know nothing about Jonglei.” 

“I know a damn sight more than you do, because I was fucking well there.” Aramis’ placatory mood was lost to a frayed temper.

“Well then, you must also know that the massacre occurred because Tahir Badur had been tipped off,” said Athos, the two men glaring at each other across the battleground of a sick bed. 

“But hang on a minute,” said Porthos, who was more confused than ever by this nonsense. "Richelieu's party weren’t even in power then. He was just a shadow minister.”

“It’s not about party politics, Porthos,” said Athos, emphasising each word of the sentence. “Your thinking is on too small a scale like all the rest. You don’t see the truth that’s staring you in the face. Why is Zimbabwe no better than Rhodesia? Why is South Africa in as bad a state as it was before Mandela? Because that’s how they want it to be.”

“Explain what happened to you,” said Porthos, changing the subject before he was called a cretinous pissant.

“Ninon and I have been working together to bring these people down ever since we discovered the levels of corruption in Afghanistan. There are others who are also involved. We had compiled a vast amount of evidence incriminating them both, but I lost focus and I started drinking too much. I was careless."

He paused again and Porthos could see that the memories were proving hard to cope with.

"My wife and Richelieu discovered that I had been investigating them," he continued. "My brother was killed, and when I found out the truth about Jonglei I became surplus to requirements. She had her own methods of bringing me down, but Richelieu arranged for a blunt trauma to the head and a dip in the Thames. Labarge, as usual, was incompetent. I was discredited publicly then disappeared, and Richelieu and my wife assumed the idiot had done his job correctly, and that I was safely out of their way at the bottom of the river.”

"But why is Richelieu trying to kill you now?" Porthos was still confused.

"When he knew I had nothing on him he was happy to try and run me off. Now he's not so sure." Athos took another sip of water. "He thinks I may be a danger to him, and he's right."

“You know how this sounds?” said Aramis, checking his watch then adding two cocodamols to the glass and passing him his dose of antibiotic.

“Quite ludicrous, I expect,” said Athos as he took the tablets and swallowed the liquid. “I do need that phone, Porthos,” he said “Otherwise I'll have to use yours which may put you and other people in danger.”

“I’ll get it today,” said Porthos. “I have to go to work in a minute.”

“Thank you,” said Athos with a tired smile. “Hopefully, before long, I’ll be away from here and you can return to reviewing cricket tournaments and harvest festivals.”

It would be for the best, decided Porthos, watching over Athos from the doorway as he rolled awkwardly onto his right side and closed his eyes. His story _was_ ludicrous, incredible in the truest sense of the word, and yet here was the irrefutable evidence that somebody, for some reason, wanted him out of the way.

He had to steel himself to leave the house, a part of him still racked with guilt over yesterday. Scared of the upset he'd caused, hating being the reason for Athos breaking down like that, he hadn't taken good enough care of him. He wanted to make up for it, to stay home and look after him properly, but Aramis was right to tell him to carry on as normal, and not purely for the reasons he'd given. After a final check on the sleeping man, he put on his jacket and left for the safety of the office.

Work was dull, most of the day spent editing old copy and arranging interviews, and Porthos wondered where his joie de vivre had gone. Where was the man who had tried single handedly to bring down Bourbon Developments? Admittedly it hadn’t ended up being his finest hour, but at least he had _attempted_ to do something, even if was only to stop a recreation ground from being destroyed. Since the car accident, he had bought into the simple life: hook, line and sinker.

Having made a date with Alice to go to the cinema that evening, he popped into the shops on his way home and, as promised, picked up a pay as you go phone. Arriving back at the cottage, he was about to deliver the mobile to Athos when he overheard a quiet conversation going on in the bedroom and waited outside the door, unsure whether to disturb the two men during such a private moment.

“I’ve never seen so much blood, and I never want to again.”

“It must have been horrific, but I’m selfishly grateful that you were there looking after him.” Athos sounded unusually emotional. “It’s a relief to know he wasn’t alone when he died. I’ve wondered all these years.”

“He was a brave kid,” said Aramis. “They all were. They didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

“It could have been worse,” said Athos. “The things I’ve seen.” He was clearly upset. “It’s why I have to stop them at all costs. You must know that. You saw what it was like in Jonglei. They treat people like pawns in a chess game.”

“Calm down, lovely,” said Aramis and, peeking through the door, Porthos saw him reach out to sweep the fringe from Athos’ eyes. “Get better first and then you can save the world.”

That fist in the guts feeling wasn’t jealousy, Porthos told himself as he strolled into the bedroom with the new phone in his hand. It was just the rumblings of an empty stomach.


	29. Chapter 29

With d’Artagnan now in the know, acting as part time nursemaid and spending most of his evenings with them, Porthos was wondering if he should also tell Alice. It seemed wrong to keep her in the dark, but then she didn’t know Athos and had rarely stayed at the cottage before this happened, so it didn’t make much sense to involve her in something so dangerous.

There was also a new problem emerging. In a constant battle with his feelings, Porthos was finding it harder and harder to spend any length of time away from home. He had discovered that there was nothing more enjoyable than to sit on the bed next to Athos, and have long and fascinating conversations about everything under the sun. Sometimes he’d read aloud to him, because without glasses he was as blind as a bat. Worse still, and the thing about which his friends teased him mercilessly, he loved to lie there and watch the man doze. There was something about seeing Athos at peace which soothed his own restless soul.

“You don’t need to be on the sofa,” said Athos when Porthos arrived with his breakfast that morning, grimacing with pain and complaining about his night’s sleep. “If you’re not at Alice’s then you can stay in here with me. I promise I won't bite.”

For a moment, Porthos wondered if it was a come on and he stared stupefied at him.

“I promise I won’t jump you either.” Athos’ eyes crinkled in delight. “It was always you making all the moves.”

"Bollocks,” said Porthos, sitting down and taking Athos’ hand in his, playing with the fingers, hardly aware he was doing it. “You just seduced me in different ways.”

“Like insulting you when I was drunk?” said Athos in that mocking, playful voice.

“Like insulting me when you were drunk, _and_ when you were sober.” Porthos laughed, but it was the little things he remembered best. The simple touch of a hand. That refined voice, laden with sex, which made Porthos want to come at his command. “I’d better go,” he said in a panic, and hurried out of the room.

“How’s our patient?” said Aramis who was in the kitchen, spreading a thick layer of butter onto his toast.

“Good,” said Porthos with a grin. “Fun. Laughing a lot. Still struggling to eat much though.”

“The antibiotics make him feel sick, but at least the wound is healing nicely. He’ll have finished the course soon enough.”

“You’re a good doctor,” said Porthos.

Aramis shook his head. “Not a doctor, just a medic,” he said, taking a bite of his toast.

Porthos was about to suggest that maybe he should retrain, when d’Artagnan came racing in through the front door. “Rochefort and Labarge are heading this way,” he gasped. “Constance is trying to delay them for as long as possible, talking about the May Fayre.”

“Fuck,” said Aramis, looking around him in desperation. “What do we do?”

Porthos, however, was on his way upstairs with a plan already in mind. “Bring down his breakfast plates and clear the room of anything that indicates someone sick has been been staying in there: medicine, bandages, etcetera."

“Yes, boss,” said Aramis, a step behind him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” said Athos as Porthos heaved him up off the bed with the quilt still wrapped around him and threw him over his shoulder. “I _can_ walk.”

“Not quickly enough,” growled Porthos. “Rochefort and Labarge are outside.”

Like lightning, Porthos raced down the stairs and into the garden, through the wild flower patch that Alice called weeds, and on past the summerhouse to that hidden area of decking.

“All we can do now is hope that they don’t know this place very well,” he said, breathing hard from the exertion and leaning against the old brick wall, with Athos resting comfortably between his legs.

“That reminds me. I'd appreciate some underpants that are the right size,” said Athos, wriggling around under the quilt and trying to solve his clothing issues.

“Shush,” murmured Porthos, pressing his lips against Athos’ ear. “Have my boxers fallen off your skinny arse again?”

“They have. You’ve unmanned me in so many ways today, and it’s only just breakfast time.” Athos smirked.

“You’re practically naked anyway,” said Porthos. “What does a bit of bare bum matter when I’m trying to keep you safe?”

On cue, there were voices coming from behind them, increasing in volume as the men walked to the summerhouse and entered the building, their footsteps sounding dangerously close as they echoed through the recess beneath the planked floor. Athos turned to look at Porthos and, triggered by fear, triggered by _something_ , they shifted nearer to each other and kissed. Was it a hello? A goodbye? A thank you? An ‘I love you’ that came far too late in the day to save their broken relationship.

Porthos curled his hand around the back of Athos’ neck, hauling him closer, and excited by the feel of that overgrown beard, he opened him up, relearning his mouth, licking at his lips, his teeth, and sucking at that pad of tongue that slid wet and soft against his. He knew, all the time he was doing this, that it was wrong. That this wasn’t just kissing. 

His heart hammering in his chest, he held Athos in place, exploring him once again, explaining, needing, feeling too much, feeling so much that it hurt. No words were used, just mouths and lips and that sensual brush of beard. 

He was hard, impossibly so, but it wasn’t about coming, or going. Staying or leaving. It was about here and _this_. About everything that mattered. Athos made a quarter turn, escaping from the cover of the quilt. His boxers had partially slipped down again and he came to rest sticky against Porthos, stretching upwards for more of his mouth. 

The drone of voices was an irrelevance in the background. At any second now, Rochefort and Labarge would walk the three steps around the side of the building and find them gasping, licking, sharing breath and murmuring words at each other that had appeared from out of nowhere.

Porthos was dizzy from this. Aching from want. Any minute now the men would fire two silenced shots at their bodies then watch them slip into the shallows and Porthos, in this state of unbeing, couldn’t think of a better end to their story.

He kissed Athos again, wishing again that he didn’t love him so damn much that he was only real when they were together. The other Porthos--that one that existed without him--was barely alive.

As the voices retreated the kissing became slower and sloppier, eventually drawing to a necessary end, and covering Athos back up, Porthos let his arousal and, more importantly, his ragged emotions return to normal. They were scared and they’d got carried away. That was all. 

"The bastards have gone," said Aramis triumphantly as he appeared around the side of the summerhouse with d'Artagnan a few steps behind. "Very quick thinking, my friend." He sat next to them cross legged on the deck. "They searched every nook and cranny of the cottage on the pretext of looking for a gun. Labarge is insistent that you threatened him with one when you were at the Manor, Porthos."

Porthos looked shifty. "I may have been holding a pistol when talking to him one time," he said and d'Artagnan's face was a picture.

"They didn't find my laptop?" said Athos. 

"Nope," said Aramis. "They searched everywhere, including both our cars, but found nothing. Good job you cleaned the blood off the upholstery. There was only one slightly dodgy moment when they asked where the duvet was and d'Artagnan said you took it over to Alice's when you stayed the night. So, it now sounds as if you have a BFF rather than a girlfriend."

D'Artagnan looked mortified. "I couldn't think what else to say."

"Dry cleaners perhaps?" suggested Aramis with a wink.

"Oh, sod off," said d'Artagnan, laughing. "I tried my best. I’m not used to this underground world you live in.” He checked his watch. “Shit, I’m late for cricket practice. See you lot later. Stay out of trouble."

"Thank you," said Athos, looking around at them all. "I honestly don't know what I'd do without you." Using Porthos' thigh as a pillow, he stretched out and dangled his fingers in the water. "It's nice here."

"It is," said Aramis, and Porthos, content with life for once, nodded in agreement.

Suffused by warmth and enchanted by the tranquillity, all three men fell into a trance state until Aramis jumped up, shaking himself like a wet dog, and declared that they were in urgent need of coffee.

Athos was roused enough to turn his head and look up at Porthos. "What?"

"Just Aramis being loud,” said Porthos. “Go back to sleep." Running a hand up Athos’ spine, he rubbed at his neck until the man turned again, warm breath seeping through the denim as he faded back into unconsciousness. Real life was an inconvenience that didn't belong in this place.

"We're being terribly lazy, but I don't care," said Aramis, returning with three mugs of coffee and his sketch pad under his arm. "I phoned Treville and told him we were working on that farm dispute thingy."

"Cool, only I filed that with him last week," laughed Porthos, twisting locks of Athos' hair into ringlets.

"Oh, well he didn't seem to care much," laughed Aramis. "It's too lovely a day to worry about either the mundane, or the dangerous."

Porthos smiled down at the sleeping man in his lap. "I think he agrees with you."

"He's a strange old thing," said Aramis. "Prickly on the outside, but with a definite soft centre."

"Less of the old, thank you," murmured Athos, without opening his eyes.

Three hours later, when d'Artagnan came home for lunch, they'd barely moved an inch between the three of them.

"Sloths," said the kid and, squatting next to Aramis, he peered over to see what he'd been sketching. "That's brilliant," he said. "Happiness in black and white."

"Let's have a look," said Porthos and Aramis held up the pad. 

He'd been expecting to see a drawing of the family of ducks that had been mooching about on the river all morning. Instead, it was a pencil sketch of him leaning against the wall with Athos curled against him, his t-shirt rucked up, his boxers half off his hips. He had a beatific smile on his face and Porthos was watching over him, his fingers tangled protectively into unkempt curls.

"Do you see it?" said Aramis.

Porthos felt as if he'd been hit repeatedly over the head with a baseball bat.

"You once did me a good turn and pointed out something similar." Aramis scooched closer to d'Artagnan and kissed him on the lips. "I'm eternally grateful, and so I'm returning the favour."

"Not so long ago, you told me to stay away from him," muttered Porthos.

"I hadn't seen you together then," said Aramis. “I doubt you could stay away from each other if you tried.”

*

With Athos medicated to the eyeballs and back in bed, Porthos went in to the office for a few hours, getting nothing useful done whatsoever, but he felt better that he'd shown his face. 

He spent most of the afternoon in a quandary, wondering whether he should call off his date with Alice. He done too much of that recently though and perhaps it was time to face the music. After such a perfect morning with Athos, it was becoming increasingly difficult to think of Alice in a romantic light. He would see her tonight and he would do the right thing.

Time flew, as it was prone to do when there was something unpleasant in the offing, and, before he knew it, Porthos was back at the cottage, going over things in his head and considering what to say for the best.

"Got something nice planned? asked Athos, lying on the bed with a hand tucked behind his head, watching as Porthos picked out a red shirt and a pair of black jeans from his cupboard.

"Just out for a meal," said Porthos. "Where _do_ you take a girl to give her the elbow?"

Athos stared dispassionately up at him. "Please don't break up with her on my account."

"Chrissake, not again." Porthos slumped onto the bed. "Not after today."

"Listen, Porthos," said Athos in a monotone. "I won't be around here much longer. I don't know where I'll be going, or what I'll be doing. You deserve better."

Porthos turned, shifted closer to Athos and rested a hand on his shoulder, careful not to hurt him. "You know how I feel about you," he said, and it was the most serious he’d ever been. The most important moment of his life.

"Don't say it," said Athos, turning away to face the window.

"Look at me,” insisted Porthos. “This needs to be said and it's long overdue. I love you, Athos, and you love me. We don't need to have fucked each other to understand that."

Athos glanced at him, those tell all eyes overloaded with emotion. "You should be with Alice."

"But I don't love Alice. I love you,” said Porthos and it was a plea that came directly from his heart. “Tell me you don't love me."

"I don't have the capacity to love anyone," said Athos in a cool voice.

"Tell me you don't love me," demanded Porthos.

Athos looked him straight in the eye. "I don't love you." 

Standing up, Porthos grabbed the pile of clothes he’d collected then slammed out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. With the shower on full force he yelled out his frustration, smashing a fist into his reflection in the mirror.


	30. Chapter 30

Angry at the world, Porthos went on his date with Alice with every intention of breaking up with her. It didn’t matter that his feelings for Athos weren’t reciprocated. It wasn’t fair to go out with one person when you were in love with another.

Alice, however, was as good company as ever, and by the time the wine and conversation had flowed and they’d taken a taxi back to her house, all thought of splitting up had disappeared from Porthos’ mind, replaced by a steady thrum of arousal.

Fucking her was as wonderful and as easy as ever. He didn’t fixate on anyone else. He wasn’t fantasising about having Athos in bed with him instead. He enjoyed everything about Alice.

“You don’t think we’ve rushed into things,” she said unexpectedly as she lay in his arms afterwards.

“No,” said Porthos, confused. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “You seemed a bit off with me recently, and I was worried that we might have fallen into a rut. You admitted you never even got around to having sex in your last relationship, and I know you were together for months because Constance told me.”

“That’s because he and I were totally incompatible,” said Porthos, and for the longest of moments he wondered why she had propped herself up on an elbow and was looking at him strangely.

“He?” she said. “You were going out with a man?”

It had never dawned on him to mention it. His dad would have beaten the crap out of him, even more than usual, if he’d found out that he slept with boys as well as girls, but, other than that, he’d grown up within a totally liberal environment where anything, _everything_ was considered normal. He regretted robbing pensioners. He regretted doing drugs. But, to be honest, he never regretted his sexual adventures. Even here in sleepy little Howerton several of his friends were gay or bi. It wasn’t up for discussion, because it didn’t need to be discussed.

“You’re gay?”

“I’m not gay; I’m bisexual,” he said, frowning at the stupidity of the question. Did she think she’d fucking cured him? “Is it that big a deal?”

“No,” she said. “Of course it’s not. I just wonder why you hid it from me for so long.”

Porthos thought about it. He hadn’t been hiding his relationship with a man. He’d been hiding his relationship with Athos. Two entirely separate things. "It wasn't a cover up. I didn’t want to talk about him is all. I still don’t. It was a painful affair that was never going anywhere.” Especially after today.

“I’m sorry. I’m just not used to the idea,” she said. “I suppose I must seem very naïve to you.” She lay back in his arms. “I had a very sheltered upbringing and only one partner before you.”

“I don’t think you’re naïve; I think you’re lovely,” said Porthos, pulling her close and folding her into a hug.

“You _have_ been tested for everything?” she said, after a few minutes of silence. “I know we use condoms, but I want us to be safe.”

“I have,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t ask _too_ many questions about his past. He could honestly say he’d never injected drugs, but he didn’t have a clue about how many sexual partners he’d had altogether. Hundreds for sure.

“You’re quiet,” she said a few minutes later. “Have I said something wrong?”

“Of course not, babe.” He manoeuvred them around in the bed until he was covering her, pushing away the feeling that he was wrong for everyone. 

*

Porthos spent the next few days away from the cottage. After work, he’d go straight to Alice’s. They’d cook dinner together. He’d do some research on his laptop. They’d drink wine, watch television and then go to bed. He didn’t think of Athos, but he dreamt of him some nights and woke, those particular mornings, feeling not dirty precisely, but perhaps not clean enough to exist here in this pristine little world.

Aramis questioned him, just once, about his absence from their lives, and Porthos wanted to cry on his best friend’s shoulder. He wanted to tell him that he’d admitted his feelings to Athos and, yet again, had been kicked soundly in the teeth, but he had too much pride. Instead, he grinned lewdly and made some stupid misogynistic joke about _getting some_.

On the fourth day, having run out of clothes, he arrived home to find a vaguely familiar and rather grubby Land Rover parked in his spot. Pulling into the bay across the road, he entered the cottage to discover a stand up row happening between Athos, who was just about on his feet, and Ninon, who was even more irate than usual.

“Oh fantastic. Another one,” the woman said icily, looking through Porthos rather than at him as he stood on the welcome mat, feeling much less welcome than usual.

Aramis and d’Artagnan were also cowering, trying to make themselves as scarce as possible in the kitchen, which wasn’t easy when it was the size of a shoe box.

“He can be trusted,” insisted Athos. “They can all be trusted.”

“You’re a fool if you think that,” she hissed. “Look what’s happened since you started trusting the locals.”

“If it wasn’t for these _locals_ I’d be dead and, once again, Richelieu would be in possession of all our information,” said Athos, leaning against one of the oak uprights with his arms folded. “They’re good people, so at very least be civil to them, and if you can’t be civil then be quiet.”

Porthos was expecting Athos to receive another slap around the face, and if not that then a sharp put down. Instead, Ninon smiled approvingly. “Excellent to see you’ve finally got your balls back. I was beginning to think your wife had permanently castrated you. I approve of strong women, but Milady de Winter pushes the boundaries.”

“Who’s for tea then?” asked Porthos, venturing across the room now that the war of words was over and the two combatants had retreated to their corners.

The upward turn of Athos’ mouth was enough to let Porthos know that it was a good idea and, whistling, he squeezed past d’Artagnan and Aramis to put the kettle on.

Drinks made and handed around, Porthos was about to sit down when Athos looked at him. "My stuff," he asked. "Can you get it?"

Worried that it wasn't going to be there, Porthos searched the hidden loft space and was relieved to find the bag exactly where he'd left it.

"I've been looking for that rucksack," complained Aramis.

"National security, mate." Porthos grinned. "More important than designer accessories."

Ignoring them, Ninon began to go through the photographs in the dossier. "This is outstanding. What an idiot Richelieu must be to invite these people to his home."

"He's a complacent fat cat," said Athos, sitting next to Ninon on the sofa, shifting around to try and get comfortable. "Nothing's touched him in thirty years, so why should it now?"

"With all the other stuff we have there's enough now to connect him to some very nasty political factions," said Ninon, her eyes glittering with excitement. "We've got him, Athos. Good work." She packed the laptop and dossier into her own messenger bag and left the Glock and magazines on the table. "Put them somewhere safe." She looked at d'Artagnan who appeared to be mesmerised by the gun. "We don't want the children playing with them."

Porthos picked up the weapon and the clips and returned them to their hiding place. He had nothing to contribute to the head-to-head that was going on in the living room, but he could see that Athos was flagging and he hoped, for all their sakes, it would be over soon.

"What about his safe? Have you got the combination?" said Athos, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

"Athos, we have no idea if he's kept any of your material," said Ninon.

"He'll have it," said Athos and his voice was bitter. "He won't trust her and he'll need that information to bring her down if necessary."

"I know how much this means to you." Ninon rested her hand against his cheek just for a moment and it was intimate enough for Porthos to wonder whether they were lovers. "But you're not in a fit state to do this. We have what we need to get Richelieu. Be grateful for that."

"It's not enough," snapped Athos. "I want her to pay. Have you, or have you not got the combination?"

"You're a fool," said Ninon, handing him a piece of paper. "And if you go ahead with this then you're on your own."

"I know." said Athos, slumping into himself, pain evident on his face. “Thank you.”

"Try not to get yourself killed," said Ninon, the tone of her voice softening. "If you were a cat you'd be on your last life by now."

"What are you going to do with all this?" said Athos, disregarding her last statement. "There's no point in trying to run it through normal media channels. It'll disappear, and so will you."

"I had a plan, but my hacker's been arrested for computer fraud and embezzlement," said Ninon with a rueful smile. "The problem with using criminals is you can't trust them to stay out of prison."

"I know someone," said Aramis from the kitchen. "Think of Julian Assange with better hair, more mental health problems and a mistrust of the government that borders on the anarchic."

Ninon looked decidedly unimpressed.

"Aramis was in the military," explained Athos. "He's not actually as ridiculous as he tries to pretend." He tempered his words with an amused quirk of his eyebrow.

Aramis acknowledged him with a tip of the head. "My friend was in the same unit as me," he said. "He went off the rails after Jonglei, but he's a good man. His name is Marsac."

Ninon raised both eyebrows. "I've heard of him. He's a loose cannon."

"Then he'll fit in well," drawled Athos. “We’d none of us pass a psych evaluation.”

"Get some rest," she said with one of those rare, gentle smiles. "You look exhausted. I'll phone you if I run out of options and need to contact Monsieur Marsac." She passed him another piece of paper.

"New number?" he said.

"Can't be too careful." Standing up, she picked up her bag and headed for the door. "Be safe, Athos."

“You too,” he said with a weary smile. “I’ll see you soon.”

“We’ll be glad to have you back as soon as you’re fit enough,” she said and, without a word to the others, she was gone.

“That is one tough lady,” said Aramis, watching out the window as the Landie roared off up the street.

“Agreed,” said Athos. “But don’t ever let her hear you call her that.”

“Tough?” said Porthos.

Athos shook his head. “A lady. She'll rip your head off if she discovers that particular word coming out of your mouth.”

His smile turned into a sigh and, as he sank into the deep cushions of the sofa, Porthos sat next to him and rested an anxious hand on his brow. "You're not hot."

Athos let his head loll back and sighed again. "Just tired," he said, his eyelids shuttering.

D'Artagnan and Aramis exchanged a look. 

"I can hear a pint of Gobblers calling my name," said Aramis. "Come on, boychick. I'll let you buy the first round."

Porthos watched them go, wondering when Aramis would give up on his matchmaking plans, but then he’d been equally as guilty of that in the past. Thinking Athos was asleep, he was covering him up with a blanket when the man opened his eyes suddenly, catching him by surprise.

“Are you and I okay?”

For a moment Porthos was unsure what he was asking, blind sided by what they’d had, _almost_ had together. Wondering whether his declaration of love had finally filtered through to that obstinate brain.

“Are we friends?” qualified Athos.

“Yeah, of course,” said Porthos, although he thought it was a poor description of them.

“A while ago I said that I would ask as soon as there was anything you could do to help.”

Porthos would never forget that evening. Athos was near desperation and, for the first time ever, he'd allowed him in instead of pushing him away. It had ended in nothing more than a kiss on the cheek, but he'd felt so close to the man. “And?”

“I need you to help me break into Richelieu’s house.”

Paranoia set in and Porthos cringed internally. “Because I have a criminal past?”

“Of course not,” said Athos with a frown. “Because my left arm is next to useless at the moment, and I’m not sure I can manage one handed.”

“I’m a journalist,” said Porthos. “Not a fucking cat burglar.”

“As am I,” said Athos in a monotone. “Do you think I enjoy this, Porthos?”

“I’m starting to think you like the drama,” replied Porthos in a grim voice.

“Then you don't know me at all,” said Athos.

“You’re right about that,” said Porthos, sitting back and folding his arms. It was yet another reason for him to choose a life with Alice over this crap shoot. “But Ninon knows you well enough and she also thinks you're wrong.”

“Ninon is convinced that I’m suffering from a death wish,” said Athos. “Whereas what I actually have is a fervent desire to see my wife pay for the crimes she’s committed. I’d like to see her hang for what she’s done.” That ice cold hatred was back. “I would hang her myself given the opportunity. Ninon has no idea how strongly I feel about this.”

“Are you and her sleeping together?” asked Porthos.

Athos looked at him and shook his head. “When we first met I was in love with my wife. I would have done anything for her.” His eyes lost focus. “When I discovered the truth about Anne I was a wreck. Ninon’s seen me at my worst.”

“Have I?” asked Porthos.

“I wouldn’t know. At those particular moments, I’m always too drunk to tell.” Athos made a woeful attempt at a laugh, but Porthos could see he was tired and in too much pain to put any effort into it.

“Put your feet up,” he said, his mood softening. “I’ll get your meds and make you something to eat.”

“No food,” said Athos, “but I won’t say no to some painkillers and a-”

“Let me guess,” grinned Porthos. “A cup of tea.”

“Am I that transparent?” Athos stretched out and closed his eyes.

Porthos chuckled. “You’re the least transparent man I’ve ever met.”

“Except as far as tea is concerned apparently.”

“You got it, buddy boy,” said Porthos from the kitchen where he was preparing cocodamols. “And you _are_ having something to eat.” There were four more antibiotic capsules left in the bottle, so there’d be no excuses after that. “Even if it’s just some toast.”

Ignoring him, Athos leaned over to the grab the remote from the coffee table. “You never actually answered me,” he said as he turned on the television. “Will you help me get the information I need on my wife?"

Porthos may not have answered him, but he’d been thinking of nothing else. Those gruesome days of drug taking, violence and crime were firmly in his past. He'd been given a second chance at life, helped along the way by a lot of good people and it would be disrespectful to them if he put at risk everything that he'd achieved.

"I can't," he said, carrying over a tray of tea, toast and medicine. "Ninon's right. It’s way too dangerous."

“Fair enough,” said Athos in that chill manner of his.

They watched Eggheads together, until Porthos had had enough of the silent treatment and went upstairs to get showered and changed. Packing a holdall with enough clothes to last him a week, he was out of the front door without exchanging another word with Athos.


	31. Chapter 31

Finally, there was some good news to celebrate. Everyone was overjoyed for d'Artagnan when it was revealed that he'd been selected for the England test team. The Howerton News reported it in detail, Porthos and Aramis managing to find several different angles to cover. They even interviewed his mum, who was over the moon at her son’s success.

Today, the cottage was jam packed with friends, all here for a party they were throwing for their young star, complete with sports themed barbecue and a cricket ball cake. 

"When do I tell the ECB that you're actually Italian-French?" laughed Aramis, but everyone could see how proud he was of his own personal sporting hero.

"Take no notice of him, d’Artagnan," said Athos drily. "He's just jealous of your success." With the champagne flowing and the celebrations picking up pace, he was readying himself for an escape.

"You okay?" asked Porthos, cutting him off at the front door, wanting to have a word before he left. "Getting jittery?"

"Not quite. I'm leaving before it gets to that stage." He patted Porthos on the shoulder. "But thank you for asking."

It was then Porthos noticed that he was in riding clothes. " _Athos_ ," he said in a low warning tone.

The man shrugged a little. "I'm just going to collect Roger from Sunnybrook. I can't afford the livery fees, and I won't allow Constance to pay his keep forever."

"I don't mind, lovey," said Constance, chiming in to the conversation. "Shandy likes having his friend there."

"You really are a busy body in the best way possible." Athos smiled at her. "Actually though, it makes sense to stable him at the Manor, because I'll be moving back home as soon as Aramis sees fit to discharge me from his care."

Porthos had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at the idea of Athos living alone in that bleak old pile, recovering from his injuries and still in danger. "It's a mess up there," he said, his jaw set with anxiety.

"No, it's not," beamed Constance. "He and I have been fixing it up."

"It's perfectly habitable," said Athos. “I won’t be there for long, and I doubt whether there’ll be any more trouble in the short term. Too many people know.”

"You won't do anything stupid?" Porthos said in a quiet voice, once Constance had wandered off to help with the barbecue and they were on their own again. “Promise me.”

"I promise I have no immediate plans for stupidity," said Athos with a reassuring smile. "You go back to your party." He peered into the garden. "They're about to dish up, and I know you won't want to miss the food."

Leaning in close, he brushed his lips across Porthos' cheek, and for a long while after he'd gone Porthos could feel that tickle of newly trimmed beard.

*

Spring drifted towards Summer--the weather getting warmer, the countryside prettier--and with everything so pleasant it was hard to understand why life was such a drag. For no reason at all, Porthos fell into a complete downer. Everyone was busy. D'Artagnan had the excitement of his ascendant cricket career. Aramis had earned himself a big new commission, painting the mayor and his family. Porthos, however, was left with nothing to get his teeth into. 

Work was a non-starter. The town was as dull to write about as it was to live in, and even Treville had noticed Porthos' despondency. Since then, there had been several awkward pep talks in the inner sanctum and, as a preventative measure, Porthos had adopted an air of general happiness, wearing it as if it were a cloak he’d acquired from Hogwarts. It seemed to do a reasonable job of fooling everyone.

The one thing that saved him from full scale depression was his relationship with Alice. They bought mountain bikes and cycled the forest trails. They went kayaking along the river. They'd even talked about getting a dog together. Things were nice. Pleasant. Easy.

Today was another red letter day in Howerton’s event calendar, but, rather than floral decorations, the windows were, instead, festooned with campaign posters for the upcoming local elections, mostly blue with the odd smattering of yellow and purple.

This year the May Fayre was being held in the cordoned off High Street. Since Richelieu's revelations about the sale of the recreation ground, the Comte de la Fère was persona non grata as far as the community was concerned, and no one had so much as mentioned hosting the festivities up at the Manor. 

Ironically, it was much the way Athos had always wanted it, thought Porthos, before he'd waltzed into town and thrown a spanner in the works.

The committee had put in a low key effort at decorating, but the usual sense of exuberance was missing. No one could anyone get excited when all the traditional elements were absent, and the Fayre had become little more than a farmers market with a small parade beforehand. 

Wondering what the hell they could find to report on, Porthos and Aramis wandered aimlessly up and down the High Street, giving up after an hour and returning to the cottage to find d'Artagnan and Constance puzzling over a photograph.

As soon as he was able to make out the subject, Porthos snatched the picture from d'Artagnan's hand. He couldn't believe his eyes. It was from the day of the cricket tournament and he was there when it was taken. 

Out of context, and with the added romance of black and white colouring, the photograph depicted what appeared to be a very personal moment between two men. Athos' eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his skin as d'Artagnan, boyish and handsome in his cricket whites, kissed him softly on the mouth. It was a lie in print.

Flipping it over to see if there was any evidence of its origins, Porthos read aloud the message that was scrawled across the back. “Do you want to see this in the papers?” Furious, he turned to Aramis. "Why the fuck would you sell this?" he said, shoving the photograph at him.

"Piss off," said Aramis, glancing at it then throwing it aside. "I didn't. I would never do such a thing." He glared at Porthos. "I pity Athos a lot more now I know how it feels to have to you spitting unjust accusations everywhere."

Porthos’ temper flared brighter. “Don’t you dare bring Athos into this. I saw you take that picture," he said through gritted teeth. "I heard it."

"I took a similar photograph, but I binned it. You know I did,” said Aramis, gesticulating angrily. “I don't even use shutter sounds. They annoy me as much as you're doing right now."

"Stop fighting. It doesn't matter," begged d'Artagnan and the kid was clearly getting himself worked up into a state. "It's a nice picture. I don't care if it's in the papers."

"You don't care that someone's trying to ruin your England career before it's even started?" said Porthos. "Grow up, d'Artagnan."

"I don't understand," stammered d'Artagnan. "Stop yelling, and tell me what you mean."

"It's about Athos," said Constance gently, her arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders. "He has a bad reputation for sleeping with young guys. It's not true, but that doesn't matter to the vultures."

"And knowing this, you still sold the picture," said Porthos, rounding on Aramis once again. 

"Fuck off, Porthos, and stop talking out of your arse," said Aramis, squaring up to him. "Why would I try and destroy the career of the man I love? Think about it, you dick." 

“I have no fucking idea,” growled Porthos.

"You love me?" said d'Artagnan and standing up, he closed the gap between himself and Aramis.

"Of course I love you," said Aramis, his frown vanishing the moment he had d’Artagnan in his arms and was kissing the daylights out of him.

"Bloody hell, you’ve set them off," said Constance. "I'll have to send them to their room in a minute."

But Porthos wasn't listening. Instead he was looking, for the first time, at a manila envelope on the coffee table with an all too familiar scattering of blue flowers. "The photograph came in that?" he said, staring at the tell tale forget me nots. 

"Yes," said d'Artagnan, pulling away from Aramis to see what he was talking about. "Why?"

Aramis stared at the table and then at Porthos. "It was obvious," he said with a sigh. "Why were we even arguing?"

"Because we’re idiots, and Athos was right. She brings chaos," said Porthos grimly. “I'm so sorry, mate."

“Would one of you please explain before d'Artagnan and I go mad,” said Constance with a frown.

"Athos’ wife, Milady de Winter sent it," explained Aramis. "Jesus. That means she had her suspicions about the Comte being her husband way back then. She must have people everywhere."

"Or she was at the Manor in person," said Porthos. He was struck by a sudden worrying thought. "Athos wasn't here when you opened this, was he?"

“Yes,” said d’Artagnan. “I showed it to him. I didn’t understand why someone had sent it to me and I thought he might know.”

“What did he say?” said Porthos in an unsteady voice. He was filled with an irresistible urge to shake the words out of the kid.

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Not much. He said he was going to the Manor and I went for a shower. He was gone by the time I came downstairs.”

Standing on a chair, Porthos checked the loft space and, just as he had thought it would be, the gun was missing.

“I’m going over there to speak to him,” said Porthos, jumping down and grabbing his car keys and phone from the table.

“What’s the matter?” said Constance. “And don’t fob me off.”

Porthos sighed. “Athos is totally irrational as far as Milady’s concerned. He has a ridiculous idea that he can bring her to justice all by himself, and this is enough to tip him over the edge.”

“You want us to go with you?” asked Aramis.

“I’ll call if I need handcuffs,” said Porthos with a faint smile. “Hopefully I'll be able to talk him down off the ledge.”

However nonchalant he might have appeared to the others, Porthos was in a state of utter distress, barely able to concentrate as he wove his way through the winding lanes at breakneck speed, praying--something he hadn’t done since he was a child--that Athos would be sane about this. He must understand that there was no quick fix.

Catching the man on his way into the stables, Porthos was pleased to discover that he was unexpectedly calm and in full control of his emotions. He was less pleased to discover that the Glock was tucked into his jacket pocket.

"You've been to Richelieu's," he said, looking at the muddied breeches and riding boots.

"I've been doing a bit of reconnaissance, yes," admitted Athos.

Porthos snatched the gun from him. “You don’t even know how to fire this thing,” he said angrily.

“There’s a trigger. It can’t be too hard,” said Athos as he was feeding Roger. “People are shooting at me, Porthos. I have to be prepared to shoot back.”

Porthos finally accepted that this wasn’t something Athos was going to walk away from and, because of that, neither could he. “I _will_ help you,” he said, “but only if I never have to see you carrying this thing again. Bloody hell, Athos, it’s not as simple as pulling the fucking trigger.”

“Thank you,” said Athos, relief evident. “I promise that from now on you can have complete control over all weapon related matters.” He reached out a hand to rest it on Porthos' forearm, much the way he had done that first time in the stables. It had exactly the same effect. “I take it, from your being here, that you saw the photograph?”

“I did,” said Porthos in a gruff voice. “Your wife is a piece of work alright.”

“She’s monstrous,” said Athos as they walked into the kitchen. “She must have been the same cold-hearted woman all the time I was in love with her. I’m such a fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” said Porthos, putting the gun and the clips in one of the dresser drawers.

“The problem is that I don’t understand these things,” said Athos as he washed his hands and then filled the kettle. “I never had the kind of childhood where emotions were expressed. The good emotions that is.”

“Me either,” said Porthos. His dad had hit him. His mum had screamed at him. He had a feeling Athos’ early years weren’t much different. He was angry for both of them. Sad for both of them. “Is that why you left France?”

Athos nodded. “I thought I bore the brunt of my father’s temper, but when I was eighteen and Tommy begged me not to leave him I realised that I'd been wrong.” He stared into space. “I'd inherited a trust fund from my grandmother and had a friend at school, John de Winter, whose father was a lawyer. He helped Tommy and I disappear across the channel and assume new identities.” He looked at Porthos. “I suspect life is easier when you have money.”

“In some ways,” said Porthos, but he also knew that not being loved by the ones who were supposed to love you unconditionally would hurt just as much whether you were rich or poor. "I had people who helped me out too."

"Then we must count ourselves lucky," said Athos with a smile.

It would have been the kind of day to split several bottles and drink away their sorrows. Instead, they sat at the kitchen table and talked, drowning everything in tea rather than whisky.

"My mum always told me she never wanted children," said Porthos. "My dad beat me up if I was home and my mum yelled at me so I stayed out with my mates. We were like a pack of wild dogs, only much worse behaved. Up to no good all the time: robbing, bullying, beating people up, doing drugs. You name it, we did it."

"It was a family," said Athos. "We all need that connection."

Porthos nodded. "It was a twisted, fucked up family, but, yes, I agree." He looked across the table. "Why did you choose the name Athos when you left home?"

"Because it was a mountain: alone, unbreakable, silent. All the things I had to be to keep my brother safe." He picked up an envelope from the table and began tearing it into strips, until Porthos gently stilled his hands. "I hated my mother because she was a drunk and I had to look after her. I hated my father because his favourite form of entertainment was to humiliate and beat his children. What I hated most was that I carried them with me: her eyes and his name."

"Go on." Porthos refilled the mugs.

"When I fell in love with Anne at Cambridge, I told her I was called Athos because I didn’t like my given name. She thought it was a interesting affectation and changed hers to Milady. It was the only truth I ever told her. I must have known back that then she wasn't to be trusted."

"You have to stop hating her sometime," said Porthos softly.

"I'll stop hating her when she's dead and not a moment before." Athos stood up and began to pace the kitchen. "She had Tommy killed as a warning to me. She killed all those soldiers because of me. If I stop hating her there’ll be nothing left of me."

Porthos stood up, blocking his path and stretching out his arms. "You're more than that, Athos," he said. "So much more."

Too emotional to do anything but hold each other, they clung together, bodies pressed tight--cheeks, foreheads, mouths all making brief contact--and if Porthos could have climbed inside and _become_ a part of Athos then he would have done it.

His phone rang, shaking them out of the moment, and they sprang apart as if they were guilty of an indiscretion rather than a hug. Porthos felt more guilty than ever when he saw it was Alice calling. He'd completely forgotten about the arrangements they'd made to meet up at the Fayre.

"Hello, love," he said, leaning against the sink.

"I'm waiting at the cake tent," she said. "You'll have to rescue me soon before I put on ten pounds. There's a coffee sponge here that has your name written all over it."

Porthos laughed. "I'll be there in half an hour," he promised and hung up. "I'll help you get the information on Milady," he said to Athos. "Provided you don't do anything too daft."

Recovering his composure, Athos smirked. "I was hardly planning on leaping into the lions' den when it was occupied. I know when the housekeeper has her day off. I just need to get Nin to double check Richelieu’s parliamentary schedule. I'll let you know the details."

They held each other again and Porthos risked a single kiss. It was closed mouth but open hearted. "Take care," he said brushing the fringe out of Athos' eyes.

"I will. I'll be out of your way soon," said Athos. “Once this is over I have a few loose ends to tie up and then I’ll be gone.”

"If things were different," said Porthos.

"If _I_ were different," said Athos with a sad smile.

"Don't go changing on my account." Porthos fought the pull of gravity. "I'm going. I'll see you soon."

This was agony, he decided on the drive home. It felt as if something had hold of his heart and was systematically ripping it apart. 

On the way back to Howerton the copious amounts of tea worked their magic, and, by the time Porthos had parked the car, he was bursting for a pee. Once inside the cottage, he was treated to the inevitable sounds of sex from the master bedroom, now complete with ardent declarations of love, love and more love. Aramis and d'Artagnan were an adorable couple, but at this particular moment Porthos felt less than adoring. He was adrift, and suffering from a sense of being terminally lost.


	32. Chapter 32

A fortnight later, when Athos called out of the blue, Porthos dropped everything that was in his schedule and pelted up to the Manor, not giving a damn about whom he was letting down. 

“Thank you,” said Athos when he opened the door, allowing Porthos past him into the sanctuary of the kitchen. “I’m sorry it was such short notice, but I had to be certain Richelieu was out of the way.”

“Short notice is fine,” said Porthos gruffly. “It’s not as if anything of interest ever happens around here.”

They looked at each other and smiled. 

“I’m sorry I have to involve you at all,” said Athos. “My arm is much better, but Aramis says it will take a few months for the muscle to repair fully. It’s such a nuisance.”

“Arm or no arm, I’d do this for you,” said Porthos. “Now, what’s the plan?”

He tried to take in everything Athos was saying about electronic key codes and looping the security surveillance systems, but it was in one ear and out the other. “I used to think you were a technophobe,” he said, reaching out so that their fingers were touching.

Athos grinned at him. “No, just a very paranoid man. Now, where did I get to?”

Once Athos had finished outlining what was to be done, Porthos looked up and laughed. “So, basically I’m here to wave a gun and help you over fences if necessary,” he said.

“More or less,” smirked Athos, but then he turned serious. “If anything goes wrong, anything at all, I want you out of there. Don’t even look back.”

“I’m hardly going to leave you behind,” said Porthos with a frown.

“You will if you have to.” Athos pulled him close until their foreheads touched. “Listen, Porthos, you have a good life here, and I won’t let you sacrifice it for me.”

“You could too if you’d…” Porthos gave up with the lies.

“I have nothing,” stated Athos simply. “When I leave here, could you tell Constance to sell Roger. At least then she’ll recoup the money she’s spent on his livery. His papers are in my desk.” He passed the keys to Porthos. “The house is in the process of being sold, so do it as quickly as possible.”

“Athos!” The finality was too much for Porthos.

Ignoring him, Athos passed over the gun and spare clips then packed everything he’d need into the rucksack. “We must be quick. I hope you don’t mind riding,” he said and threw him a pair of leather gloves. “Wear these.”

Porthos had never ridden anything, other than a man, in his life, and he followed Athos out to the stables, green with nerves.

Roger was tacked up waiting, and when he nosed a hello at them both, Porthos wondered whether he remembered him from that day in the bluebell woods.

Mounting the horse, Athos held out a hand to Porthos who, in ungainly fashion, swung up behind him. Bloody hell, it was higher than he expected.

“You should have taken me up on the offer of those lessons,” grinned Athos, looking over his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just hold on tight.”

“You seriously think I’m planning on doing anything else?” said Porthos, his arms clamping tightly around Athos.

Once they were moving, it wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined. Athos was a good horseman and Porthos felt safe. So much so, that he would have chosen to ride around all day like this, his body flush against Athos', his mind temporarily freed from worries.

Dismounting, they tethered Roger within the boundaries of Richelieu’s estate, just inside the tree line, a few hundred metres from the razor wire fence that surrounded his house.

“This is how you cut yourself that day?” said Porthos, looking upward.

Athos grinned at him again and, despite what he’d said in the past, Porthos could see what a thrill the man got out of his adventures. He was a closet adrenaline junkie. 

"The code was out of date and I was being impatient.” Athos tapped some numbers into the keypad and the rear security gate clunked. “Thank god for that. I was worried they might have changed it again,” he said, pushing his way inside. “You see that area to the left of the conservatory, by the downpipe?”

“Yes,” said Porthos, wishing he had a piece of gum to chew, in order to quell his nerves.

“When I say so, we run over there as quickly as possible.” Athos' eyes were fixed to the security cameras. “Now go.”

Hurtling across the lawn, hoping his leg would hold out under the strain, Porthos wondered whether he should have mentioned that he was still at less than a hundred percent fitness. Two crocks were not going to make the best team of covert agents, or burglars, or whatever they were supposed to be.

“Okay?” said Athos and Porthos nodded. “Good. Stay down while I see if this code opens the door. Once we’re inside, we go left then left again and into the security office where I have to disable the alarm and mess about with the cameras, pretending that I know what I’m doing.”

“ _Athos_ ,” said Porthos, wishing the man would stop treating this like a game.

“Sorry.” Athos shrugged. “I have a bad habit of talking nonsense to keep the nerves at bay. The worst that can happen is that the alarm goes off; you do a runner and I stay to face the music.” The door opened and Porthos followed him through the conservatory. It was then that the adrenaline hit him like a wave. He remembered it from the past: that euphoric, gut-clenching feeling.

“Here we go,” said Athos, tapping numbers into the alarm panel and smiling when it successfully disarmed itself. “Ninon is far better at intel than my wife.” He then sat down at the desk and examined the footage from the cameras. “If I loop in this chunk here then delay the time that should cover us.”

“How do you even know how to do all this?” asked Porthos.

“I interviewed a lot of criminals when I was a journalist. They became useful contacts later on. They taught me a lot.”

“You ran with a dodgy crowd,” sniggered Porthos, keeping an eye out all the time they were talking.

“Dodgier now,” smirked Athos, glancing up at him. “Done,” he said. “Now we find Richelieu’s study and the safe.”

Porthos followed him up the plushly carpeted stairs and along the landing that was decorated with faux Georgian panelling then into a room that was more of a lavish lounge than a study. It put Porthos in mind of the Oval Office in the White House. Stupid prick, he thought as he peered at all the fake family portraits and concocted connections to old French politics. 

From here, there was a doorway into the man’s bedroom and, after checking to see whether Athos needed his help cracking the safe, Porthos couldn't resist having a nose around, to discover whether it was just as presidential in his sleeping quarters. 

It was when he was inside the master suite that he heard footsteps along the corridor, and he was about to alert Athos, who was now searching through the contents of the safe, when Labarge walked into the study.

Unprepared for the sudden choke hold, Athos struggled, his strangulated yelps of anger and flailing elbows having little effect on a man that size.

“I'm getting sick of the sight of your face, de Winter,” snarled Labarge. "I'm gonna put you out of your misery right now." 

As he tightened his grip on Athos, Porthos stepped forward and brought the butt of the pistol down onto the back of the man's head, knocking him unconscious with one blow. "You okay, Athos?" he said, tying up Labarge using metres of telephone cable he'd harvested from around the walls. 

“I think so. I’m grateful you were here,” gasped Athos, rubbing at his throat and leaning forward to catch his breath. "Thank you."

“No problem. I’ve been wanting to hit this wanker for months,” said Porthos with a huge amount of satisfaction at a job well done. He finished off by gagging Labarge with a ripped up pillowcase and then stood up. “Now what?”

“Now we get out of here as quickly as possible,” said Athos, packing a couple of old hard drives into his bag. "Let’s just hope Ninon's pet geeks can find a way to read the data off these. How long will it take Labarge to get free?”

“I tied him up pretty securely and took his mobile phone off him,” said Porthos, panting with exertion as they escaped Richelieu’s grounds and made for the woods. “I reckon he’ll need a hand to escape.”

“Even so, I don’t trust him,” said Athos. “Give me the keys. You take the bag and go home. Put the stuff up in that loft as soon as you get indoors, to be on the safe side. I’ll collect what I need from my house and meet you at the cottage in half an hour.” He swung into the saddle and hauled Porthos up behind him. “Time to get out of here, Sundance.”

"I’m pretty sure _he_ could actually ride a horse," said Porthos, holding onto Athos.

They parted company at the stables, Athos running for the house and Porthos, still fired up on adrenaline, speeding down the driveway like Lewis Hamilton, barely avoiding the car parked to one side of the entrance.

"Bloody dog walkers," he grumbled as he raced off to Howerton.

Back at the cottage, he stowed the bag in its hiding place then paced like a caged tiger, working off steam. Realising that this was achieving nothing but adding to the threadbare quality of the rugs, he tidied aimlessly for something to do, clock watching all the while and waiting impatiently for a knock at the door.

An hour on, with still no sign of Athos, alarm bells were beginning to ring. Maybe he hadn't tied Labarge up as well as he'd thought. It had been years since he'd dealt with shopkeepers and rival gangsters in a similar kind of way and he was well out of practice. Then there was that car that was parked at the bottom of the long driveway. There were no obvious walks around the Manor, and the vehicle itself was immaculate and clearly not local.

Jumping into his Golf, he drove straight back to Athos' house, preparing himself for a telling off. The strange car was still parked on the side of the bank, but that was the least of his worries, because there was a strong smell of smoke in the air, and what he saw, when he reached the top of the drive, frightened the shit out of him. The Manor was glowing a fierce orange from within, and smoke was billowing out of its broken windows.

"Athos," he yelled, charging in through the kitchen door. Soaking a towel in cold water, he held it to his face and fought his way through the inferno. “Athos!” The great hall was completely ablaze, the curtains in the hallway on fire and the panelling about to catch. "Athos, where the fuck are you?"

Smoke stung his eyes and he made his way through to the study, caught off guard as someone pushed past him to avoid discovery. A glimpse of ice green was enough to tell him who it was. 

Athos was on the floor, coughing from the fumes and with a fresh cut to the temple, but he was conscious. Choking back a sob of relief, Porthos helped him to his feet. "Let's get out of here before we're cremated, buddy boy."

"Hang on a sec," shouted Athos and, stumbling to his desk, he collected a couple of A4 envelopes from the drawer.

"Seriously?" Porthos grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the study. The house was burning down around their ears, and the man was worried about catching the post.

It was impossible to get through to the kitchen, but Porthos managed to kick open the scorched front doors with brute force and strength of will. Once they were outside and away from danger, Porthos turned and, with Athos trapped safely against his side, coughing the smoke from his lungs, they watched the Manor burn to the ground. 

"Your wife really doesn't like you," Porthos said after he'd phoned the fire brigade.

Athos smirked. "I did tell her I'd be happy to get a divorce, but she seems to want a more permanent solution." 

Porthos couldn’t find much about this scenario to amuse him. That was two more lives Athos had used up today alone. "I'm going to enjoy seeing that woman hung out to dry," he growled.

Athos nodded. "I must let Roger out into the far paddock. He'll be petrified of the fire."

Porthos followed him around to the stables, and watched as he led the upset horse to a sheltered part of the grounds, far away from the main house, talking to him and patting him, leaning against his neck for comfort.

It was a stupidly emotional moment having to witness Athos say goodbye to the animal. He was aware that it was a bad case of transference, but Porthos had to swallow several times to get rid of the bloody lump in his throat.

"You will make sure he's looked after until Constance can sell him?" said Athos and Porthos nodded, unable to trust himself to speak just yet.

Tenders and ladder engines careered up the driveway, ready to begin an assault on the fire, and Porthos sat in the car, watching from a distance as Athos explained the situation to the crew. He didn't want to get involved. He was too distressed.

Still clutching those envelopes, Athos opened the passenger door and climbed in. He stared out at the burning remains of his home. "I told them that, as of yesterday, the house no longer belongs to me and that they should contact the new owner."

"What if they manage to save any of your stuff?"

Athos shrugged. "I have nothing to save," he said, and this time Porthos didn't try to convince him otherwise.

After the acrid smell of smoke, it was a comfort to get back to the perfumed atmosphere of the cottage with its olde worlde aroma of lavender and beeswax. Whilst Athos was in the shower, Porthos rummaged around in Aramis' room and borrowed some clothes for the man to wear.

“These should fit," he said as he slung jeans, t-shirt and underwear at Athos, then stripped out of his own grimy clothes and squeezed into the cubicle.

After the stressful events of the day, he could have done with a long soak in the tub and, as he was washing his hair, he remembered the bath that he and Athos had shared all those months ago. It was supposed to have been the start of something new, but instead it had been the end. Salt mixed with shower water and, resting his head against the tiled wall, hidden from everyone, Porthos allowed himself a few moments to be sad.

Hollowed out and shaky, he emerged from the bathroom, wondering if Athos would be waiting for him, but the bedroom was as empty as he was. Dressing slowly, as if prolonging this would postpone the inevitable, he eventually headed down the stairs to find Athos sitting at the dinette, staring out into the garden.

“Cup of tea?” said Porthos.

“No, thanks. I'll need a lift to the station, though, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” said Porthos. After all that they’d been through, why were they being so fucking polite with each other? “Have you got everything you need?” he asked.

There was a small pile of stuff on the table. Athos’ worldly goods, plus the two brown envelopes.

“Wallet, money, Ninon’s number, phone.” Athos checked everything off. “Can you post the letters for me?” Porthos nodded. "It’s just the hard drives then.”

Porthos pulled a chair into the kitchen and stood on it, reaching over to open the hatch, and, as he did so, he felt arms encircle him and lips come to rest against the bare strip of skin where his t-shirt had slid up.


	33. Chapter 33

In a split second the world, and every problem in it, vanished away, until all that was left was this one runaway moment. Stepping down from the chair, Porthos collapsed into Athos’ waiting arms, their mouths connecting with an urgency he’d never felt before.

Moaning into each other, they stripped away shirts, kissing, stumbling through the cottage and kissing again. Pushing Athos back onto the stairs, Porthos flicked at the buttons on his jeans, jamming his hand inside those borrowed boxers then tugging his cock free.

He dived onto him, sucking at him and shoving him further up the stairs, then gasped with delight when Athos turned the tables, kneeling over him and shoving his jeans down to pull at his cock with firm strokes. Laughing, scrabbling to get away and get to bed, Porthos howled with delight as Athos pounced once more, freeing him from jeans and underwear then licking up his spine and biting at his shoulders, until there was nothing left of Porthos but this all consuming need.

Making a sudden grab for Athos, he rolled him over and stripped him naked then, climbing astride that narrow body, he bit into his neck, licked from ear to jaw and then took his mouth for more of those greedy kisses. Athos bucked up against him, crying out as Porthos worked his way down from mouth to cock, and, clamping a hand around the base of his erection, Porthos sucked and licked, laved him with his tongue until Athos was begging him to stop, begging him to let him come, begging for anything, everything.

Porthos stood and, offering Athos both hands, he pulled him tight against his body. Clinging to one another, they slowed things down, holding each other close and nipping at mouths, skin, muscles.

Dropping to his knees, Athos licked slowly up the length of Porthos' cock, all the while gazing up at him, keeping him fixed in those deep blue eyes. Wrapping his fingers around the shaft, he swirled his tongue around the head and then took him in fully, swallowing him deep into his throat.

“Oh god damn you,” groaned Porthos with a jerk of his hips. He hauled Athos and that amused smirk to his feet. “D’you actually want to make it to the bedroom this time?”

Athos grinned and Porthos growled playfully, barging him towards Aramis’ room. Pushing him down onto the bed, he kneed his legs apart and, holding him in place, he leaned over to grab some supplies from the drawers. Finding the lube, he went hunting for condoms and, whilst he was distracted, Athos took the upper hand, wrestling him onto his back and fingering him open. Porthos howled again, fucking himself on Athos’ slicked hand. “Not in his bed,” he gasped. “He’ll kill us.”

They made it as far as the floor, Porthos on all fours on the rug, crying out in pleasure as Athos took him hard. 

“I’m going to fuck you next,” Porthos grunted.

“I’m counting on it,” said Athos, fingers digging into Porthos’ hips as he surged forward and curved over him, licking a trail of kisses across his back. “Been thinking about nothing else but having your big cock in my arse for months.”

Porthos couldn’t take any more, those explicit words in that refined voice too much for his already overloaded senses. Pulling free, he grabbed the lube and condoms then hauled Athos off to his own room, throwing him on the bed, skinning on a rubber and then slicking up. Finally, _finally_ he was in him. Fucking him. Loving him.

Pinning Athos’ arms above his head, Porthos rode into him, the wave of pleasure building as Athos bit at his lower lip and arched up from the bed. He was wounded physically in so many ways--the cut to his head, the line of throttle marks around his neck, the puckered scar from the gunshot wound--but to Porthos he’d never looked less damaged, or more beautiful.

“D’you want me to make you come now?” asked Porthos, his voice thick with arousal, and Athos’ eyes darkened in response.

Using just one hand now to restrain him, Porthos closed his fingers around Athos’ cock and worked him with a rhythmic twist, slamming inside hard as he felt Athos tremble around him.

It was a blur, a clench of muscle, a slip of palm. A slow, sweet slide into something that was so much more than a meeting of bodies. They melded together, joined wherever they could touch, kissing with soft lips, then clashing teeth, then deep swipes of tongue. 

Porthos could feel every particle of Athos, could sense his orgasm as well as he could his own. He drew it out of the man, watched breathless as he coiled in his arms and then unleashed wet over his fingers. The pull inside was immense and as Porthos was sucked in and, bound by muscle, he came, shuddering and falling into Athos.

With a corner of the quilt pulled over them, they slept, and when Porthos woke he was still half wearing a condom and was crusted with Athos’ spunk. It didn’t stop this from being perfect. 

Squirming down the bed, he licked at Athos’ cock, taking him into his mouth and feeling a jolt of excitement as he swelled against his tongue. He explored every ridge of skin, the wrinkled softness of his balls, the silken stretch of his shaft. He mapped him, committing every part of him to memory for when he’d be gone, and when he looked up Athos was watching him, those big eyes full of excitement, captivated by him. 

Porthos sucked a lingering trail of bruises all the way back to his mouth, swinging a leg over his body and straddling him. Cock pressed against cock, they kissed and kissed and kissed some more until he was breathless with need and there was this deep seated ache within him that had to be filled. He shifted upwards until he could feel the tip of Athos wet against him, and breathed in slowly to control the urge to sink down onto that naked shaft.

Ripping open a wrapper and rolling the condom onto Athos, he reared over him and then slid down with a gasp of pleasure and a sigh of relief as that hollow part of him was filled.

Athos encouraged him to move, thumbs digging into the valley of his hipbones and Porthos began to ride him hard. He reached for his cock but Porthos batted his hand away with a grin. “I want to watch you come, and then I want to fuck you again.”

Athos smiled up at him. Hands tucked behind his head, he stretched outwards and upwards and Porthos knew he had been given full rein to play. 

It was a game of discovery to chart Athos’ most erogenous planes. His nipples, his neck, his underarms, all of these had the man bucking up and crying out with delight. There was a tiny area under his ear which turned him into a fierce ball of desire. His ribs were ticklish, even in this state of arousal, which amused Porthos no end. But Athos’ favourite--a turn on for both of them--was to have Porthos suck slowly at each of his fingers. 

Porthos loved this. He was in absolute control, enjoying every nuance, keeping it steady until he could take it no more. When his limits were reached, he rode Athos hard, sucking at that fleshy pad of thumb until Athos was throwing his head back and arching into him, lodged rigid and thick against his sweet spot until it was almost too much bear. 

The next few seconds were a jumble of movement, a pulling apart and a coming together again, as Porthos slammed inside Athos and fucked him once more, all slap and bang and headlong tumble to orgasm. For one wonderful moment nothing existed but this, and he'd forgotten that it was all they had left between them. Remembering the truth, he came violently, angry at the world, pulling Athos into his lap and burying his face in damp hair and warm skin in order to hide the rawness of his emotions.

Afterwards they huddled together in silence, listening to the splash of the river and the call of the ducks.

“I know,” said Athos finally. “It hurts.”

Porthos wasn't ready to speak yet.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” he said eventually.

Athos turned to face him. “I can’t do that,” he said, and he kissed him softly on the mouth. “You know I can’t.”

Whilst Athos was in the shower, for the second time in as many hours, Porthos collected up the clothes and threw away the detritus of their afternoon in bed. As he returned the lube and the condoms to Aramis’ drawer then tidied the duvet, he wondered how he was going to be able to cope with the aftermath of this.

“It still hurts,” said Athos, a sad smile on his face when he returned from the bathroom.

“It does,” agreed Porthos, pulling on his clothes. He wasn’t ready to wash Athos off him quite yet. Opening the top drawer of the chest, he took the Breitling out of its battered case. “I bought this for you a while ago,” he said, handing the watch to Athos. "Happy Christmas."

“I don’t know what to say.” Athos gazed at the face.

“Wear it sometimes and think of me,” said Porthos.

“I’ll wear it always,” said Athos, winding it, setting it and strapping it onto his wrist. “I’ll think of you always.”

Porthos knew that if he pushed him back onto the bed and held him once more he would never be able to let him go. “You’d better leave,” he said in a stilted way. With Labarge and Milady both on the loose it wasn’t safe here in Howerton. Their two hours in bed had been a risk. A wonderful, terrible risk.

“I know.”

Packing his few belongings into the bag from the loft space, Athos refused a cup of tea and so, after that, there was nothing for it but to make the twenty minute drive to the station.

“I don’t care who sees us,” said Porthos as they sat in the car park. “I am not letting you go without kissing you goodbye.”

They were shaking when they came together: mouths, hands, hearts connecting in a very different kind of desperation.

Porthos wished the kisses had been easy and comfortable. He wished he could say goodbye to Athos without knowing that a massive part of him would be missing for the rest of his life. 

Unable to watch him walk away, Porthos started the engine and drove out of the car park, but the road ahead was nothing but a blur and he pulled over into the first layby he came to, gripping the steering wheel and sobbing his broken heart out.

When he eventually made it home, he threw his car keys onto the table and sat on the sofa, vacant and empty. Numb with grief, hoping his mourning would end soon, he waited silently for things to come right.

The sudden flare of the living room lights made his watery eyes hurt, and he blinked repeatedly to ward off the painful glare.

“Why are you sitting here in the dark?” said Aramis, taking off his jacket and hanging it up on the hooks. “Oh christ! Athos wasn’t in the Manor when it caught fire, was he?” He sat next to Porthos and slid an arm around his shoulder. “The fire brigade said it was unoccupied and that they’d spoken to the owner.”

“He was in there,” said Porthos in a dull voice.

“Fuck,” said Aramis and he was shaking. “Oh fuck no-”

“I got him out. He’s safe.”

“Porthos, you frightened the shit out of me.” Aramis paused. “To be honest, you’re still frightening the shit out of me.”

“It’s nothing,” said Porthos in a very deliberate voice. “It’s okay. Everything's okay.”

“Was Milady responsible?” asked Aramis.

Porthos nodded. “But he’s safe,” he said again. “He’s gone.”

“Ah,” said Aramis. “I see.”

“We fucked today before he left.” Porthos still felt numb. “It was our first time together.”

“I thought you were already lovers,” said Aramis, confused.

“I love him. He loves me.” Porthos wished that Athos had actually said it to him. “But we'd never even made it to bed before today. I wish we had.” It was different to any kind of sex he’d had before. It was fun; it was boisterous, but there was so much feeling there. “It hurts,” he said, swallowing down that permanent lump in his throat. “He wants me to stay here and have a normal life. He wants me to be happy.”

“And you will,” said Aramis. “I hate to say this, but all you two ever do is hurt one another.”

“I know,” said Porthos. “But how can I be happy without him?”

“It'll happen,” said Aramis, sitting next to Porthos and pulling him into his arms. “You have Alice. She’s good for you. You said so yourself.”

It was a shock when Aramis said her name. He’d forgotten he even had a girlfriend. He’d cheated on her. “I should tell her about Athos,” he said in a monotone.

“Just think of it as having some long overdue, post dated sex.” Aramis kissed the top of his head. “No need to say anything to anyone.”

“I’m not going to see him again,” said Porthos, discovering retrospectively that stating the fact just made this more impossible to bear. 

“D’Artagnan and I are having a couple of pints at the pub tonight,” said Aramis. “Why don’t you come along?”

Porthos shook his head. He couldn’t think of anything worse. All he wanted to do was to go to bed. “No thanks, mate. Not in the mood.”

“I’ll stay in with you then,” said Aramis, putting his feet up.

“You go. I’ll be fine. To be honest, I’m better off on my own,” said Porthos.

“I can’t even persuade you with a round of Jager Roulette?” When Porthos once again shook his head, Aramis gave up and, walking over to the table, he picked up the envelopes. “Do you want me to drop these into the post box on the way?”

“Please,” said Porthos. The sooner every reminder of Athos was gone, the better. He’d throw away the man's smoke encrusted clothes. He’d chuck the Glock into the deepest lake and then he’d learn how to be a proper small town boy.

“By the way,” said Aramis as he was about to open the front door. “Did you know that Athos sold the Manor to Louis Bourbon? We’ll probably have two retirement complexes in Howerton now, rather than just the one we were worried about.”


	34. Chapter 34

“Hello, feller,” said Porthos as he stroked the horse's nose. “What has your master gone and done, eh? He is a sod.” Roger snuffled against him, searching him for treats, and Porthos gave in and fed him a Polo. “I’ll let you in on a secret though. I miss him too.”

Roger was now living at Sunnybrook Stables, happy to be reunited with Shandy, but, according to Constance, not quite himself, and Porthos had come to visit him so they could both have a bit of a whinge.

"I have to see King Louis tomorrow," he said to the horse. "Should I punch him in the nose?" Roger whinnied, bowing his head in what was, without doubt, a nod. Porthos laughed. "If he’s really annoying I might just do that and then run away."

"Why don't I tack him up and give you a few riding lessons?" said a voice from behind him. 

Startled, Porthos jerked around to see Constance smiling with delight. 

"I promise I won't listen to any of the juicier secrets you share with each other." She laughed. "He's my horse now, you know. The daft sod gave him to me."

"He thought you could sell him to get back the money he owed you," said Porthos.

"Not in a million years," said Constance, petting Roger affectionately. "You're my grumpy old git, aren't you, boy. Let's get you tacked up for Porthos. You be nice to him. He's lovely."

Daily riding lessons proved to be fun. It was good to do something which both took his mind off Athos and allowed him to feel a connection. Plus, it made a change from reporting on the Great Fire of Howerton.

For the last week he’d done nothing but write about the causes of the fire at the Manor. The consequences and effects of the fire at the Manor. The new owners and how they would rebuild after the fire at the Manor. It was a never-ending saga, and also a very odd feeling to be speculating on a subject when, for once, he was actually privy to the facts.

“I hate that little prick,” said Aramis, as they drove back from doing yet another interview with the Bourbons.

“You’re not jealous, are you?” asked Porthos. It had been strange to see Anne sitting with Louis, heavily and happily pregnant, and joining in eagerly with talk of the rebuild.

“Oh no. God no,” said Aramis, pulling a face. “Heaven forbid.” His expression turned to a dreamy smile. “D’Artagnan lights up my world.”

There was still, however, an enormous elephant in the room as far as Porthos was concerned: a subject that they had only briefly touched upon. Now seemed like the right time to bring it up. “Have you thought about what you’ll do if…” How could he put this?

“If the baby is obviously mine?” said Aramis. “Of course I’ve thought about it. D’Artagnan and I have talked about it. I have a strong suspicion that it is, and I’m prepared for that. I’m thinking of myself as nothing more than a sperm donor.”

“But she used you,” said Porthos, angry on behalf of his best friend.

Aramis shrugged his shoulders and lit a fag, then opened the car window at Porthos’ disapproving look. “She was desperate for a baby and I may have unknowingly helped her out.”

"Won't it bother you?"

Aramis looked at him with neither guile or humour. "Many things bother me, but I learn to live with them." He smiled. "I won’t let this ruin my life. I enjoy it here in Howerton. The important question is, do you?"

Porthos froze for a moment as he considered Aramis' words. He had things to look forward to. As soon as the school year was over he and Alice had made vague plans to go on a canoeing-camping trip. Before that, he had the excitement of d'Artagnan's first test cricket series and the Summer Fête, which was supposed to be another pagan extravaganza of weirdness, but would probably end up being the same washout as the May Fayre.

Disregarding all the rules of the countryside, Aramis chucked his ciggie out of the window and patted Porthos on the arm. "I think the silence says it all, my friend."

Back at the office, Aramis read the gossip pages of the Mirror, whilst Porthos heaved in a deep sustaining breath and tried his hardest to portray Bourbon in a good light. It was a difficult job turning Louis' narcissistic comments into anything positive.

"Tricky," said Treville, leaning over his shoulder to have a read, after he heard Porthos repeatedly complaining about the jumped up little twerp. "Add this to the article if you like. I just heard from the council that the Comte de la Fère acquired the recreation ground from Bourbon, as part of the sale of the Manor, and has donated it to Howerton with a proviso that it must always remain as a public space."

"That should be the lead story this week," said Porthos, twisting around in his chair to seek approval from Treville, but already composing the copy in his head. This time he hadn't jumped to conclusions. This time he'd listened to his heart.

*

The news about the reinstatement of the rec brought some much needed vitality back to the town. There was a sparkle of excitement in the air. The solstice plans, which had been ditched, were now being unshelved, and there was a frantic flurry of activity going on, with Constance running around in circles trying to organise a last minute dance in the hall.

“What are the Midsummer celebrations like?” Porthos asked Alice as they stopped for a breather at the midpoint of one of their favourite bike trails through the hills.

Alice brushed the mud off her legs. “Bonfires and sun dances. It’s a bit odd as always. My family are supposed to take part, but we gave all that nonsense up generations ago, thank goodness.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” said Porthos honestly. Safely disposing of the Glock had been a shut off point for him. He’d decided, from then on, to enter into the spirit of things. Howerton, at its best, was a joyful little place. “You can explain all the pagan stuff to me on the day,” he added, testing the air on his tyres.

“Actually, I won’t be here,” said Alice.

Porthos glanced across at her. The tone of her voice was a dead give away that something was up.

“David wants to get a dog, so we’re going over to Ireland to see some Collie pups that weekend. I’d totally forgotten about the fete.” She couldn’t quite look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Porthos.”

“That’s okay,” he said, and it really was. This was so restrained that he wasn’t even sure it could be called a break up, although it most certainly was one.

It hadn't come as a surprise. The end had been in sight for a while. He and Alice were a perfectly matched set of strangers, comfortable in each other's company but never daring to delve too deeply. There was nothing about their relationship which fired up his enthusiasm and, now he knew for certain Alice that felt the same way about him, it was a relief, rather like the after effects of a sneeze.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while,” she said, biting her lip anxiously. “We realised, a couple of months after David moved to Cirencester, how stupid we were to split up. He and I belong together and we always have done. I've applied for a couple of teaching posts in the area so I can be with him. A new start away from our families will be good for us.”

They’d been unfaithful to each other, thought Porthos, and yet it couldn't be further from cheating, both guilty of nothing more than sleeping with the people they loved. He supposed he should tell her about Athos, but that seemed childishly tit for tat. In the end, it was better that she didn’t know In fact he was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to know.

“You’re not angry with me?” she continued. 

“Of course I’m not,” he said with a genuine smile. “We’ve had a lot of fun together. It’s been great.”

She laughed. “So this has turned out to be a mutual _let’s be friends_ situation. I rather think I should be offended.”

“It's got to be better than the one sided version,” smiled Porthos, bouncing to his feet and offering her a hand up. “Come on, woman. We’ll finish the trail then inflict our muddy selves on Remi’s upholstery and have a goodbye drink.”

“Damn it, Porthos,” laughed Alice as she climbed back on her bike. “I’m so close to being in love with you.”

Porthos grinned. “So near and yet so far.”

After a couple of rounds at the Cocks, they parted amicably and Porthos went home to the cottage. He knew everything was going to be okay when he caught himself whistling in the shower. He might have to go back to some one handed sex for a while, but at least he was no longer trying to kid everyone. Now all he had to do was learn how to forget Athos.

*

A month later, a tiny event occurred which would alter the course of Porthos' life, both suddenly and dramatically. It may have never happened at all if he hadn’t chosen _that_ particular moment, of _that_ particular day to sit behind the summerhouse, in his and Athos’ spot, and share a quiet lunch with the ducks.

To keep his telephone conversation as private as possible, Aramis had chosen to go into the studio: a perfect plan provided that no one was lurking nearby. “I don’t have contact details for him,” Porthos heard him say cagily. “I know where to find him, and I can ask him if he wants to meet up with you.”

There was a long pause during which Porthos’ heart was hammering so loudly that he was sure it must be heard. Was it Athos on the other end of the line?

“Well, that’s the best I can do, take it or leave it. Okay, I’ve got that. I’ll see what he says and then contact you within the next couple of days.”

Cigarette in hand, Aramis looked flustered and out of sorts. He did a double take at seeing Porthos standing in the doorway.

“Was it Athos?”

Aramis shook his head. “No, it was Ninon. I have to go up to London to speak to Marsac, and I don’t want d’Artagnan involved in any dodgy dealings. Do I tell him the truth, or feed him some bullshit?”

“The truth,” said Porthos. “He’s a sensible kid.” He looked at Aramis. “You do know I’m coming with you?”

This time Aramis nodded. “I would have told you, even if you hadn’t been listening in to my private conversation,” he said with a wry look.

“I wasn’t listening in, so much as you were speaking really loudly.” Porthos grinned at Aramis, and then he reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks, buddy.”

“You do know you won’t necessarily see him,” warned Aramis. “I have no idea what’s going on up there.”

“But there is a _possibility_ of seeing him, which is better than nothing.” At his lowest ebb Porthos had rung Ninon’s number, which he’d copied down secretly before Athos had left. It had been dead. “I have to give it a try,” he said. “I’ll drive us up there, but I need to speak to Treville first.”

Aramis looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“You know why,” said Porthos with a shrug.

Quitting his job at the Howerton News turned out to be much harder than he expected. Treville had taken a chance on him, and this was not Porthos’ ideal way of repaying the debt.

“I can’t thank you enough for everything,” he said. “But I have to leave straight away, and I’m really sorry I can’t give you any notice.”

Treville looked at him over the top of his glasses, and then something unexpected happened. Taking a folded piece of paper out of his top pocket, he handed it to Porthos. “Tell Athos that these three people can be trusted implicitly.” When Porthos did his best impression of a goldfish, Treville smiled in a paternal manner. “Don’t let him lead you into too much trouble. I’d tell you to keep him out of trouble, but that’ll never happen either.”

“How do you know…?” Porthos had so many questions, but, now that he needed them most, words had abandoned him.

“How did I know about you two?” Treville laughed. “That was patently obvious. As for how I know Athos, well I had the privilege of being the newly promoted foreign editor at the Telegraph when he was a rookie correspondent. A trial by fire, I can tell you. I nearly murdered him on several occasions.”

Porthos smirked. Athos was difficult to manage now, when he had the bit between his teeth. The younger, impetuous version must have been a nightmare.

“He’s a good man,” said Treville. “One of my best. I hope he digs himself out of this hole. Give him my regards.”

“If I see him,” said Porthos gloomily.

“You will,” said Treville. “You’re also one of my best.”

Stowing the scrap of paper safely into his top pocket, Porthos shook the man’s hand and left the News office for the last time. He looked up and down the High Street, which was bathed in sunshine, and memories of his first day here filled his head. He’d been a fish out of water back then: frightened to death, but glad to get away from London. Now Howerton was his home. He thought of Aramis with that huge welcoming grin, and his surly Comte, wine soaked and bad tempered. He remembered Treville greeting him like a member of the family and Constance, sweet-natured and optimistic about everything. It was truly a bitter sweet moment.

Back at the cottage, Aramis was on the phone again, chatting away to d’Artagnan and trying to explain why it was a bad idea for him to get involved. Allowing them some privacy, Porthos climbed the stairs, ducking and weaving his way through the beams on instinct. More memories came flooding back to him as he packed a few belongings into his holdall. A year was such a short amount of time, and yet it had turned out to be more fulfilling and life altering than he could have imagined in his wildest dreams, which, it had to be said, were pretty damn wild.

The GI’s uniform hung in the eaves cupboard, dry cleaned and waiting for the next fancy dress party. Taking it out, he laid it on the bed and pictured the cosy study at the Manor, now nothing but ashes. The lump returned to his throat. 

Folding the uniform over his arm, he carried that and his bag downstairs. Leaving the holdall by the door, he headed up the street to Voguette, the bell jangling loudly as he entered the shop. Constance was pricing up some dresses and hanging them on a rail behind her.

“I reckon you’ll probably be arranging more wartime parties now that you’ve got the hall back,” he said, laying the clothes carefully on the counter. “Someone else might make use of these.”

“If you tell me you’re leaving, I’ll be furious,” said Constance, her lower lip jutting.

“I’m leaving,” said Porthos. “But please be happy for me and wish me luck.” He swallowed. “Wish us luck.”

Rushing out from behind the counter, she threw her arms around him. “I do. All the luck and all the love in the world, but I’m going to miss you so much,” she sobbed.

Damn her for making him cry. He’d done too much of that in recent weeks. “I’ll miss you too, Constance. As soon as it’s safe we’ll come back and visit. I promise.”

He couldn't wait to be able to return home to Howerton with Athos, proud of what they’d achieved and proud of being with each other.


	35. Chapter 35

"So, where are we going?" asked Porthos, once they were off the North Circular and heading into the centre of London.

"There's a greasy spoon Marsac always uses in Hammersmith," said Aramis. "We'll start there."

Porthos grimaced. This sounded all too much like hunting down a needle in a haystack. "When did you last see the bloke?" he asked.

"Couple of years ago," said Aramis evasively.

"Mate, that caff's probably long gone. I bet it's been turned into some overpriced bijou residences for out-of-towners with too much money."

"It was a wooden shack," said Aramis.

"My point still stands," growled Porthos. Athos seemed further away than ever.

The café, if you could call it that, was still there, and was exactly as Aramis had described it. The spoons were actually greasy, and so were the cups, the saucers and even the tea. It didn't, however, stop Porthos from feeling hungry, and he would have ordered a bacon sarnie, if it wasn't for the sight of the immensely large man, who was taking up two stools and eating a supersized plateful at the counter.

"What's the plan then?" asked Porthos as he removed the film from his tea with a paper napkin. "Do we ask someone in here if they’ve seen him?" The big man looked like a regular, and there was always greasy Joe who was serving.

Aramis shook his head and looked at his watch. "It's a waiting game, I'm afraid. We stay here until it closes and then we move on to a pub he frequents a lot."

Just give me Ninon's number, Porthos wanted to shout, but it would be so much better if he could arrive with a useful contact rather than begging pathetically to see Athos. "Suppose he's out of the country?"

"Unlikely," smirked Aramis. "He's afraid of his own shadow, and mostly keeps to his safe places."

Porthos frowned. This bloke Marsac sounded more like a paranoid pothead than an anarchic computer hacker, but then what did he know? He wrote stories about the winners of best-in-show vegetable trays.

"Don't look so down in the dumps," smiled Aramis, nudging him with an elbow. "How about another cuppa and a doughnut?"

"Sounds good," said Porthos.

Four teas and a sausage sandwich later, the owner flipped the sign on the door. "I'm closing up, lads. You'll have to find somewhere else to park your bums for the night."

Porthos felt slightly insulted. Did they look like they were homeless?

"Thanks very much," said Aramis, who didn't seem offended in the slightest. "Now we try the Black Lion."

Porthos nodded, remembering to pay the congestion charge on his phone. Being back in London was strange. It felt as if it were a lifetime since he'd lived here, and yet he knew all the side streets and rat runs without even having to think.

"Where are you from?" asked Aramis.

"Hackney," said Porthos. "A world away from this.” He looked around him at artisan bakers and Italian coffee shops “I don't reckon my hood has gone urban chic." 

They pulled up outside a tiny pub in West Hampstead, and Porthos fed a small fortune into the meter. When a police car drove past, he was half expecting them to do a stop and search. It had happened a lot when he was young, usually for good reason.

Sitting having a pint was less cloak and dagger than Porthos had been expecting. Still, at least the surroundings were nice and the beer was good. They were in the middle of their second game of pool when Aramis excused himself, to go to the bogs, Porthos assumed, but when he returned he was no longer alone.

Marsac turned out to be a straggly haired, slightly grubby looking bloke with an eco warrior dress sense and a pair of crystal blue eyes which raked over Porthos as if he were detecting for bugs. "Sit," he said, pointing at an unoccupied table in the corner. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"We have a job for you," said Aramis and Marsac laughed.

"I've told you before I don't design village news websites," he said abrasively and Porthos felt affronted on behalf of Aramis, who again didn't seem to give a toss.

"What if I say two names," muttered Aramis, keeping his voice practically inaudible. “Ninon and Athos.”

The reaction was immediate. With frown lines etched deep into his forehead, Marsac stood up and it was clear to Porthos that he wasn't in the slightest bit interested, but then he glared at them both in turn. 

"What are you waiting for?" he snapped, and, without a word, Aramis followed him out of the pub, Porthos trailing a few mystified steps behind them.

Once they were in the car, Marsac leaned forward from the rear and hooked his arms around both front seats. "What the fuck do you know about Athos de Winter and Ninon de Larroque?" he said.

"Too much," said Aramis brusquely. "I prefer to stay away from trouble nowadays, as you well know, but Porthos here is a magnet for it."

"Oi," smirked Porthos who felt this was mostly unjust. "Where am I driving us now?"

"Cricklewood," said Marsac. "I’ve been dossing there for a while."

Squatting was a more appropriate word, Porthos discovered as he followed Marsac's directions, and pulled up outside a derelict Victorian end of terrace in a glum backstreet.

"It's not much, but it's home," said Marsac, pushing past the groping arms of an overgrown rhododendron, then on through an ivy coated door into a fine period example of what smelt like wet rot and mildew. 

Once the battery lanterns were lit everything seemed much worse, and Porthos shivered. He'd thought his parents' flat in Hackney had been bad.

"This way I don't pay rent and I don't have to have bank accounts," said Marsac, by way of explanation.

The guy must be in his mid thirties, thought Porthos and he wondered how hard it would be to live like this with nowhere to call your own and no chance of normality.

A mind reader apparently, Marsac answered him. "It's not so bad. I've stayed in worse. This place has a functioning toilet and even a shower, if you can brave the cold water."

Porthos then realised that this may indeed be the exact lifestyle he had just chosen for himself, and when he imagined Athos here with him in this musty room, things didn't seem half as unpleasant. 

"So," said Marsac, lighting a camping stove and balancing a battered kettle on the burner. "Tell me about this job."

Porthos looked at Aramis. "We can't really say too much."

"It's big, my friend," said Aramis. "On a global scale. A game changer."

"Dangerous?" said Marsac.

"Very much so," growled Porthos.

"And connected to Jonglei," said Aramis in a low voice. The two men stared at each other, and Porthos could could sense a silent conversation going on between them.

"You know how hard this is for me," said Marsac eventually. All of a sudden, he looked desolate.

"I also know how much you want to make a difference and how long you've been fighting to do just that," replied Aramis.

"If it's as big as you say it is and we fail, then that’s it," said Marsac. "We'll be on a rendition flight out of here as soon as you can blink."

Porthos was beginning to find the man’s level of paranoia seriously discomforting, but Aramis appeared to be taking him seriously. 

"I agree it's a big decision," he said, watching as Marsac poured mugs of black coffee.

"I'll sleep on it," said Marsac, and then he raised an eyebrow. "I don't suppose you fancy sleeping on it with me, mon cher?"

Shaking his head, Aramis took a coffee from him. "For the first time in my life, I'm well and truly taken."

“Not possible.” Marsac grinned, turning his attention to Porthos and once again letting his eyes roam over him, this time in appreciation rather than suspicion. "And how about you?"

Aramis answered for him with a chuckle of laughter. "No chance there. Porthos is more taken than I am. In fact he’s possibly the most taken man in the world. Sorry, mi amigo, but you'll have to make do with our pleasant company instead." 

It had been a long time since Porthos had kipped on a damp mattress in a rundown squat, but luckily he was still medicated on Howerton fresh air, and crashed out as soon as he lay horizontal.

He woke at the crack of dawn longing for Athos, not hard and humming with arousal, but pining from somewhere deep within. He still had the list Treville had given him, so even if Marsac didn’t want to play ball then at least he had a reason to call Ninon and ask to meet up. He’d take any excuse going, although he wasn’t naïve enough to assume that Athos would be glad to see him. He might, just as easily, tell him to get lost.

Showering under a lacklustre stream of icy water, Porthos cleaned his teeth and did his best to shave, peering in between the blackened age spots on the mirror.

“Just give me one chance with him,” he said, sending his words skyward. “Just one bloody chance.” If the fates did intervene on his behalf he had a spiel prepared, ready to convince Athos that he was never going to go back to Howerton to live the simple life. To explain to him that they belonged together, whether the man liked it or not.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Aramis and Marsac were leaning against the living room wall, eating a nutritionally unsound breakfast of crisps and chocolate bars whilst reliving the better parts of the bad old days. 

“Morning, Porthos.” Aramis waved a Mars bar at him which Porthos declined with a shake of the head. “Marsac’s agreed to do it,” he said, through a mouthful of Snickers. “I’ve phoned Ninon and we’ve arranged to meet.”

For the next two hours, Porthos was silent and shaky, going over and over the words in his head. Athos had once said he was master of the persuasive argument, and he prayed hard that he still had that power over him.

“See what I mean by taken?” laughed Aramis. “Porthos, wake up and stop daydreaming about your man. Three times now I’ve asked you whether you know where this place is.” He showed him a piece of paper and Porthos nodded.

The address was for a basement flat in an upmarket block in Maida Vale. It had its own entrance around the side of the building, and was about as private as one could get in terms of small city residences.

As Aramis rang the buzzer, Porthos’ heart began to pound at double speed, jumping into his throat as soon as the door opened.

“Get a move on.” Ninon ushered them inside and battened down the hatches. “So, you’re the notorious Marsac?” she said, looking the man up and down. “You seem more like a hippy than a hacker.”

Porthos didn’t hear any more of the conversation, because standing a few feet away from him was Athos, scruffy haired and pretty eyed, leaning against a door frame with his arms folded. 

Ready for rejection, Porthos had the speech autocued in his head, but it turned out he didn’t need it when Athos unexpectedly charged him down and crashed into his arms.

“I hoped-” was all Athos had time to say, because after then Porthos was kissing him, groaning into his mouth, hands slipping under his shirt and pulling him closer.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” he growled, catching hold of Athos’ hand and trapping it between both of his. “I’ve quit my job, so you’re stuck with me and you’d better fucking like it.”

“I like it,” said Athos, the corner of his mouth tipping upwards. “I love it.”

There was more kissing as they tumbled backwards onto the couch, Porthos straddling Athos, fingers twisted into his hair, licking into him, tongues sliding wet together.

“Athos,” snapped Ninon. “For fucksake, behave with some propriety. Five years we’ve been waiting for this moment and now you’re too busy with your boyfriend to give a damn. Put the man down and tell Marsac what we need him to do.”

She has got a point,” said Porthos, climbing unwillingly off his lap. “Go over there and do some work and I’ll sit here and stare at your arse.” The way Athos looked at him, bewildered and slightly unsure of himself, made Porthos long to steal him away and screw him senseless. “Your cold front is slipping,” he murmured, his lips grazing Athos’ cheek.

“So, what can I do for you?” asked Marsac, clearly amused by Athos’ flushed face and air of confusion as he came over to talk to him.

The man scraped his hair back and composed himself. “We have information connecting grandees from politics and the media to some very disreputable factions, and in some cases terrorist organisations. It’s a high risk strategy, but I want to release it in bite sizes chunks as viruses. I want to set up websites containing all the information with a worm as the hook and relocator.”

“Use Anonymous,” said Marsac.

“This is dangerous, inflammatory stuff.” Athos handed Marsac a dossier to look through. “I don’t want a bunch of kids to end up being extradited somewhere unpleasant.”

“We’re saving that treat for ourselves,” smiled Ninon. “Is any of this at all possible?”

“It is, but it’ll take a while,” said Marsac, looking through the evidence. “This is crazy.”

“Says the crazy guy.” Aramis raised his eyebrows and grinned.

Porthos took the folded paper from his jeans pocket and handed it to Athos. “Treville told me to give you this.”

Athos scanned the short list of names. “He’s certain they can be trusted?”

Porthos nodded. “Implicitly so, he says.”

“Then I have no reason to doubt him,” said Athos. “Treville is one of the best men I know.”

“He said the same about you.” Porthos was captivated by this new version of his man: level headed and cool thinking, yet gazing openly at Porthos as if he was the only thing that mattered in the world.

“Ninon,” said Athos.

The blonde woman looked up from where she was going through information with Marsac. 

“We have some safe names to send hard copy to,” he said, a full smile lighting up his features.

She smiled back. “Best get to work then,” she said. “You two have an important story to write. Before we do anything, however, we move to a different location just in case someone has been tailing you.” She handed around a scribbled address. “Leave your car and go by public transport. Go separately and stay alert.”


	36. Chapter 36

This was now, by definition, proper, honest to goodness cloak and dagger. With a vague feeling that it could still be a huge cosmic joke that someone was playing on him, Porthos switched from tube to tube to bus, finally arriving at the new address: a dilapidated Georgian conversion near Swiss Cottage.

When Ninon opened the door to let him in, she threw a definite warning glance his way and Porthos was expecting the follow up shovel talk. “Work first, play later,” was all she said, however, and there was a kindness about her eyes. 

Very much relieved, Porthos had a feeling he'd passed some kind of boyfriend test, and he followed Ninon through to the living room, a weight now lifted from his shoulders.

Athos was here, laptop set up on a scratched Ercol table, glasses on, hair messed up as if he'd just run his fingers through it in frustration, and Porthos smiled at the familiar sight. 

Taking his own computer out of the holdall, he plugged in and set up next to him. "So, how are we doing this?" he said and when Athos looked up, registering his presence for the first time, all the worry drained away from him and was replaced by utter pleasure.

"Hello, love," he said, pushing his glasses up out of the way. "I didn't hear you arrive." Tilting his head, he leaned in for a kiss and the warning cough from behind them was an order to show restraint. It didn't matter, though, because just that single press of lips proved to be electric. 

Washed along on the current, Porthos imagined them in bed together, _remembered_ them in bed together. It was too good and he forced himself back on track. "What are you doing?" he said, pointing at the laptop screen.

"Boring stuff." Athos smirked and stole one more kiss. The doorbell conveniently rang and he took advantage of the moment of privacy, his tongue sliding into Porthos' mouth for a full on hello.

It was damn near impossible to pull away, but Porthos knew he had to do it now, or else he'd drag Athos to the nearest available surface and show him exactly how much he'd missed him, right in front of everyone. "Concentrate on work," he growled. "Or we'll be in trouble."

"Deep trouble," repeated Athos, loading emphasis onto the deep.

"So," said Porthos, shaking his head to clear it of all thoughts of sex. "For the third time, buddy boy. What are we doing?"

"Trying to work on a design for the website," sighed Athos. "I have no idea about this stuff."

"I can do that for you." Aramis, the latest to arrive, leaned over his shoulder. "All the information is here in these folders, yes?" Athos nodded. "I'll code the layout while Marsac writes his program and, that way, you and Porthos can do what you do best, and be journalists."

"Sounds good to me," said Athos, looking back at him with a full on grin. "Thank you, Aramis."

"I want to tell _your_ story," said Porthos. Athos might not care about clearing his name, but he damn well did. "You can get your own back and do the exposé on Richelieu and Milady, while I tackle you."

“You can tackle me any time,” said Athos and then he raised an amused eyebrow. "As long as you realise you're far more likely to get a jail sentence than a by line."

"You're still an evil sod," said Porthos, kissing him once more.

With Marsac now here, the room became a hive of activity, Ninon on the phone, coordinating with contacts, whilst the other four were busy on laptops. 

Porthos may have had a great article to write, but he couldn't think clearly. He was drunk on Athos, drugged on him, and, excusing himself, he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face to try and pull himself together.

Athos was waiting for him when he emerged, lounging against the wall, his eyes intense and full of dirty heat.

"I need you," Porthos said, holding Athos by the wrists and spreading him cruciform. Jammed up against him, he bit at his throat, licking up to his mouth and plastering his lips with kisses. "I can't think of anything but you."

"Bedroom's that way," said Athos, indicating a door opposite them with a nod of the head.

"We shouldn't," said Porthos.

"No, but I think we must." Still restrained, Athos shoved forward and took Porthos' mouth, sucking greedily on his tongue.

They stumbled across the narrow hall and fell into bed, stripping each other in a frenzy. Their kisses, in contrast, were soft and yielding, a slow brush of lips and slide of tongues. With a combined fumble of hands and wrappers and lubed fingers, Porthos was finally in Athos where he belonged, at peace as he reared over him, high on the heat and the magnetic draw of his body.

Tangled together, they twisted hot and sweaty between the scrunched up sheets, Athos' cock a hardness between them. It was exquisitely slow, forceful and passionate. It was a push and a pull, a balance of need and restraint, and Porthos drifted, washed over by a tide of sensation. When Athos jerked against him, eyes widening, Porthos held his hands and pushed him down, then fucked him, deep and hard, until he came wet against him, reaching for kisses that were interspersed with the words that Porthos had been needing to hear.

"I love you." Athos wrestled them over in the bed until he was astride Porthos, gazing down at him. "I love you," he said again and, muscles clenched, he began to move, dipping forward to nuzzle at Porthos' neck then suck a lingering trail of redness across his shoulders and chest.

Porthos rocked up to sitting, held Athos in his lap and arched into him, breathing him in, tasting the salt of his skin, hearing the breathy moans as Athos was filled by him. "I love you," he said as he came, mindless, overwhelmed, body collapsing in on itself as he sank, with Athos curled around him, back into the bed. 

They slept for a while, and when they woke up they fucked again, laughing this time, excited by the adventure of finally being able to have each other whenever they wanted. 

"Athos, Porthos, get your arses out of there," shouted Ninon, hammering on the door with her fist.

“Just give us today,” shouted Athos, but Ninon was a hard mistress.

They took laptops into the bedroom with them, their writing interrupted by teasing blow jobs. They touched each other up whilst working, and then had to stop in mid sentence for mutual handjobs. Once upon a time, Porthos had wanted to climb inside Athos, to become part of him and now he was there. 

"Stop whatever you're doing and cover up. I'm bringing in coffee so you can rehydrate," said Aramis as he opened the door, his grin as wide as Porthos had ever seen it. “It’s good to see you both happy for a change. Please try and keep it that way. I can’t take any more angst."

Putting the mugs down on a rickety side table, he perched on the edge of the bed. "I've designed a layout that I think will grab people's attention."

"Thank you," said Athos, his hand warm on Porthos' belly. “It needs to be high impact.”

"It is indeed,” said Aramis. “Marsac'll finish coding it when he's written his program. He can make any tweaks you need."

"Cheers, mate," said Porthos, his hand wandered, searching Athos out beneath the sheets, unable to stop touching him. “You’re the best."

Aramis grinned. "Ninon's ordered Chinese, so you'll definitely want to climb out of bed for that. I made sure she ordered greasy pork balls and that seaweed shit."

"I like those," said Athos and Aramis laughed.

"Seems you are destined to be together," he said. "Now drink your coffee, get washed and get the fuck up."

With Aramis gone, they fell back into the lure of more kissing, but then, empty stomachs growling, they showered together and appeared, a little while later, wet and sheepish in the living room, still joined at the hip. Porthos was totally overwhelmed. He’d never given in to his needs with such abandonment since he was a teenager.

Passing plates and cartons around, they ate dinner to the soundtrack of Athos and Marsac who were discussing the political security of certain hosting zones, their refined voices growing in volume as time ticked by and the argument grew more heated.

"This isn't a fucking porn site so if you're thinking about Russia, or former Soviet republics then forget it because we'll be locked up before we even launch," snapped Athos.

Marsac's eyes widened. "That big?"

"That big." Ninon nodded. "So don't leave any signatures in your code. We need to think small in terms of hosting. Island republics. Out of the way exile states. That sort of thing."

"Oh, do I have some ideas for that." A smile lit up Marsac's sullen face, turning him into a handsome man.

"This is why they never eat," said Aramis, spooning some more rice onto his plate. "They're too busy thinking and talking and being conspiratorial."

"Whereas we like noodles too much," said Porthos, with his mouth full.

Once dinner was over, Aramis packed up his stuff and hugged Porthos goodbye. "You take good care of him," he said to Athos in a stern voice, but then he drew him into the huddle. "And please don't do anything too stupid."

"I'll promise I'll phone you before we do," said Porthos.

After a quiet and rather intense conversation with Marsac, Aramis was gone, off to catch his train back to Howerton, and if Porthos felt a twinge of regret, it was only for the departure of his friend and the uncertainty of when he'd see him again. Aramis was his brother in everything but blood.

"Go with him," said Athos, serious and sad, and all the more gorgeous because of it.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily, darling." Porthos kissed him, both of them greasy from Chinese food, neither of them giving a damn. "It's late," he said with a grin.

Athos looked at his watch. "Ten o'clock already?” He kissed Porthos back. 

Ninon shook her head in despair, but she'd long since given up the fight, and leaving her and Marsac to save the world from corrupt politicians, Porthos took Athos to bed.

*

Marsac's program was genius. In fact, Marsac himself was an untapped genius--the key to their success--and Ninon guarded him as jealously as if he were the crown jewels. On launch, via text and email, his worm went viral through both mediums, replicating itself and relocating each user to the websites.

Mellendorf, the current editor of the Telegraph, was eager to meet with them somewhere discreet, where the two articles, plus reams of evidence, were to be handed over in plain brown envelopes. Porthos was quite fascinated by the old time simplicity of this. Technology was far too exploitable to be of any use for the small stuff. Paper and pen were the modern day methods of choice. At least they hadn’t had to resort to semen based invisible ink. Not yet anyway.

"This will clear your name," Mellendorf said in a thickly accented voice as they sat at an out of the way table in a small German coffee shop in Bayswater. "And it will bring Richelieu and Milady to trial, but it's a mosquito bite in real terms. You've irritated some very dangerous people."

"We're fully aware of that," said Athos in an ice cool voice. "And we're going to keep irritating them, but we're not prepared to hide while we do it. Thanks to Porthos, I've got my name back and I intend to keep it as my own, 'though I'll stick with the Athos part. Athos de la Fère sounds right to me."

Porthos grabbed his hand under the table. He loved the name. He loved everything about the man. 

Since the launch of the virus, it had been a wild ride. They'd abandoned Swiss Cottage within minutes and had now separated into groups, with Porthos and Athos living in a scruffy bedsit in Kentish Town, not far at all from where Porthos had started out in life. He was still a wanted man -- mostly by Athos who couldn't keep his hands off him and dragged him off to bed as often as humanly possible.

"You're prepared to testify against these people in court?" said Mellendorf.

Athos nodded. "If needs be, although I don't relish the idea. I don't trust the police, or the judiciary as far I can throw them."

"With good reason it seems," said the editor, getting up to leave and shaking their hands. "These articles will be published tomorrow, Athos. Expect the fallout to begin then."


	37. Chapter 37

The fallout was extreme, but not in the way any of them expected. With the truth about Milady and Richelieu out in the open, and being scrutinised by billions, informants crawled out from the woodwork like cockroaches, ready to name names and provide evidence. 

Milady and Richelieu were arrested and charged, their reign of fear now over. They hadn't covered their tracks as carefully as they’d thought; there was so much proof available that Athos may have been the main whistle blower, but he was never going to be called to testify against them. His life would be forfeit if such a thing were to happen.

He did, however, see Milady just once more as she was coming out of her preliminary hearing, in order to hand over the divorce papers in person.

Bounded on all sides by a mob of legal experts, she looked at him with pure hatred in her poison green eyes. "You will pay for this, Athos," she said.

"Have fun working out how to make that happen from your prison cell," he said with an upward tug of his lips.

Porthos, standing protectively behind Athos, was incredibly proud of him, and leant forward to whisper sweet nothings in his ear. "I need to fuck you right now," he murmured as he edged closer, in order to show him exactly how much he wanted him.

Athos turned his head to kiss Porthos, in full view of everyone, cheeks flushed and eyes full of excitement. They made it as far as the Golf, which was parked in the underground car park of the law courts, and then screwed each other senseless in the back seat, half naked and deliriously, deliciously out of control.

The court case was the beginning of a catalytic chain that left both Porthos and Athos stunned. Mud was renowned for sticking, but in this case blackening the characters of so many political and media figureheads had restored Athos to his previous pedestal. He and Porthos were much in demand, but neither of them were after the high life. Doing freelance investigative work was far more rewarding. 

At least that was the case sometimes, but then there were those other occasions when everything was shit, shit and more shit. 

"What are you doing now?" smirked Athos, watching as Porthos crashed around the tent, his torch held between his teeth.

"I'm trying to catch a motherfucking moth that's the size of a Colombian drug baron,” growled Porthos, giving up the chase and collapsing back down onto his sleeping bag in despair. Right now, he couldn’t care less about geopolitics or the link between that and cocaine. Right now, he was hot and fractious and claustrophobic. He'd had it up to the eye teeth trying to make the satellite phone work, and he’d eaten enough sterile food packs to last him a lifetime.

Athos lit the lantern then deftly caught the moth in cupped hands as it fluttered around the light source, chucking it outside and zipping up the doorway.

"My hero," growled Porthos in a sarcastic voice.

"I thought I was supposed to be the moody one." Athos laid a cool palm on Porthos' overheated forehead. "Do you want to go home?"

“No. No way.” Porthos panicked, grabbing hold of Athos’ hand and holding it tightly between his. "I'm okay, darling. I'm just sick of the humidity. I don't want to go anywhere without you."

"And I wouldn't let you." Athos leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. "What I meant was: shall _we_ go home for a break? It's Winter Finding soon, and I know how much you love to laugh at the freakish antics of your favourite locals."

Porthos couldn't imagine anything better than cool autumnal weather and a cosy bed to sleep in. There'd be football on the telly and Aramis to watch it with. There'd be pints of ale in the pub and Remi's roast dinners. "Only if it's what you want," he said earnestly. Athos' time in Howerton had not been particularly happy.

"Everyone deserves a holiday."

"We could have a holiday anywhere in the world," said Porthos, but, god, did he want to see his friends again.

"Then it's decided," said Athos, kissing a path downwards from neck to belly, his fingers rummaging beneath the waistband of Porthos' boxers.

Porthos wasn't certain what had been decided, and right now he didn't care. Leaning back on his forearms, he watched Athos dip down to take him into his mouth. "Fuck, I love you," he murmured and Athos looked up and grinned.

"Tomorrow you can pay me back in front of a log fire."

"In the Cocks?" sniggered Porthos.

"Can't think of anywhere more appropriate," said Athos with a twinkle in his eye, and then he bent his head again and washed Porthos with broad strokes of his tongue, sending him first to Heaven and then to sleep.

*

The next day didn’t contain a single reciprocated blow job, taken up entirely, as it was, with travelling the length of Colombia in a rusted death trap of a bus. Porthos never imagined it could take so long to reach Bogota airport. He also never thought it would be another eight hours until they could get a flight out of a country that had turned out to be one of his least favourite places in the world: a list that included Syria and Afghanistan. 

After a ten hour flight back to Heathrow, which left them both cranky and sleep deprived, they gave in to their angst and had a stand up row in Arrivals.

“We need to buy some clean clothes,” insisted Porthos. “We can’t go back to Howerton looking like this.”

“You _are_ kidding me?” hissed Athos. “We’ve been travelling for three days straight, and now you want to go shopping? There.” He pointed to a rack of I Love London t-shirts. "Problem solved.”

“I am not fucking wearing one of those,” snarled Porthos.

“Boys,” said a merry voice from behind them as an arm descended around each of their shoulders. “Am I going to have to bang your heads together until you shut up?”

“Aramis,” groaned Porthos in relief. He’d forgotten totally that he’d called him from the airport in Bogota. It had been so long ago.

“Both of you need a shower, by the way, and very badly indeed, but I’ll forgive you this once.” Aramis pulled them into a three way hug, and Porthos was so damn tired he could have slept right there in his arms. “We must hurry,” Aramis continued, breaking free from sweaty armpits. “I’ve parked in the drop off zone and left d’Artagnan sweet talking a Heathrow traffic Nazi. Even he’s got a limit as far as chatting up goes, so pick up your stuff and let’s go.”

They had next to no luggage as most of their camping gear had been abandoned in the jungle. Like students after a music festival, they had neither the desire, nor the energy to lug any of it back home, and Porthos felt slightly guilty, because if Flea ever found out she’d tear a very big and very painful strip off him for being so environmentally unfriendly.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly as he wound an arm around Athos’ shoulders and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You’re doing this for me, and I’m being a bad tempered git.”

“I happen to love bad tempered gits,” smirked Athos.

“Hang on a minute.” Porthos glanced suspiciously at him as they followed Aramis down the wide walkway. “You’re not going home just to see that bloody horse, are you?” 

“I might pop in and say hello to him,” said Athos casually. “If I’m passing the stables.”

Refuelled with love, Porthos squeezed him a little bit tighter as they shambled through the airport like immigrant zombies.

“Thank fuck,” said d’Artagnan when they arrived at the car and, hurriedly, he loaded their rucksacks into the boot. “I thought I was going to have to sleep with the traffic man next time he did his rounds, and he was a bit wrinkly.”

“Everyone’s a bit wrinkly compared to you, sweetheart.” Aramis kissed him on the lips and pinched the car keys back from him. “Say hello to these two from a distance. They’re grouchy.” He grinned. “And also ripe.”

“You should try living in the jungle for a fortnight,” muttered Porthos.

“Technically, we were in the rainforest,” said Athos as he climbed into the back of the car.

“Pedant,” grumbled Porthos, but he was too tired to be tetchy and he clambered in and pulled Athos against him. “So, what’s been happening in Howerton? Where’s the granny commune been relocated to now?”

“Would you believe it never happened,” said Aramis. “The Bourbons rebuilt the Manor as a neo gothic monstrosity, and are now living up there as Squire and Squiress. Anne’s so in love with the idea of parenting that she convinced Louis to turn their old palace into a spa and retreat for exhausted yummy mummies.”

“And the baby?” asked Porthos cautiously, adjusting his position as Athos snoozed peacefully, jammed up against him. 

Aramis looked at him through the rear view mirror. “Thankfully the miracle child, Louis Jr, is the spitting image of his father. A relief all round, I can tell you.“ 

“How’s my replacement?” Porthos had been wondering about this for a while in a semi-professional, semi-jealous way.

Aramis and d’Artagnan exchanged glances. “He’s kind of odd,” said d’Artagnan warily.

“His name is Gallagher, and I have no idea where Treville dug him up from.” Aramis laughed. “He makes Athos seem pleasant natured and easy going.”

“Enough of the cheek, young man,” came a drawl from beside Porthos. 

“Are you ever actually asleep?” Aramis looked over his shoulder and grinned. “The good news is he’s renting a house in one of the villages, so you can stay with us for as long as you like.”

Porthos yawned and smiled, and the next thing he heard was part of a distant conversation that was to do with home and waking up. Opening his eyes, he discovered he was back in Howerton, the wind whistling and the autumn leaves blowing up the High Street, and he had to blink twice to make sure it was real.

They made it into the cottage, with Athos sleepwalking his way up the stairs and Porthos helping him avoid the beams and then stripping him and directing him into the shower.

A pair of wary eyes regarded him in horror as the water turned from boiling to icy and back again, and Porthos laughed. “You know what it’s like here,” he said. “Now, hurry up and wash, so I can have a turn.”

By the time Porthos had finished in the bathroom, Athos was curled foetally under the quilt and Porthos climbed in next to him, wrapping himself around that damp naked body, blissfully content with life. Finally, he was going to bed with Athos in this room, without either of them being upset, wounded or sick.

“I love you,” he murmured and let the tumble of river water and the howl of the wind lull him to sleep.

What felt like two days later, Porthos woke with his batteries completely recharged, exhilarated from the fresh air that was pouring in through the gaps in the window. Dashing naked from bedroom to bathroom, he peed and washed then hurried back to bed, lying on his back and waiting for the inevitable to happen, when Athos would wake up just enough to spread over him like a blanket. Not so great in a hot country, but wonderful here in the frosty heart of England.

"I'm cold," complained Athos and Porthos wrapped him up tightly and rocked against him. "And I really need a wee." His eyes opened wide in panic and Porthos released him, laughing with delight as he raced full pelt for the loo. 

Returning a few minutes later with clean teeth and the drool washed from his face, Athos grabbed his watch from the bedside table and strapped it onto his wrist, peering at it helplessly then shoving it in Porthos' face. "I can't see what it says without my glasses, and I think they're still on a chair at Bogota airport."

Sometimes Porthos hated being this much in love, but only because it had the power to make him physically ache. He took hold of Athos' hand and suckled at his index finger, at the same time pulling him back on top of him. "It's time for you to rubber up and get that cock of yours inside me before I go crazy, darling."

"You're such a romantic," grinned Athos as he rummaged in the drawer. "Lube but no condoms. I'm afraid your luck is out."

Porthos hardened against him. He'd been thinking about this for a while. "I'm safe," he said, nuzzling kisses into the warm crook of Athos' neck.

There was a long silence and a distinct lack of movement. "I was tested as soon as I found out what my wife had done, setting me up with those guys," said Athos in a monotone. "I'm clean too, but..."

"But what?" prompted Porthos. Athos didn't talk often and when he did it meant that there was something that he really needed to get off his chest.

"I can't blame her entirely," said Athos in a miserable voice. "I didn't know they were rent boys, but I still fucked them. I didn’t care who I slept with."

"We're neither of us innocent," said Porthos, stroking Athos' back, up and down in comforting sweeps of his palm. "We both have a past." He kissed Athos on the lips. "But I much prefer to think of our future."

Athos braced himself on an arm, looking down at Porthos in wonder and then he took him by surprise, opening him up and licking into his mouth, his fingernails raking downward until he was teasing his cock, squeezing and rubbing then pulling at him with a slicked hand.

"I love you." Porthos thrashed helplessly and spread his legs wide. "I need you in me."

Hitching in a breath, Athos slid lubed fingers into Porthos, twisting them, crooking them until Porthos was arched like a bow and begging shamelessly.

"I've never felt like this about anyone," said Athos as Porthos lifted for him, legs resting on his shoulders. He sounded astonished, mystified as if he finally believed that love could actually exist.

"I know," said Porthos and he was glad that this was happening here, rather than in a hostel in Iran or a luxury hotel in Dubai.

It was bliss when Athos pushed naked inside him: wet, thick, hot. This wasn’t the boisterous turn and turnabout that they were used to, but a languid roll of bodies, heat searing them from every direction as their mouths joined in a kiss that was an echo of the sex.

It was inevitable that the pace had to change and, when it did, Porthos found himself on all fours with Athos slamming back home. He swelled to the feel of Athos bare inside him, threw back his head and roared out his relief as a hand clamped around his cock. He felt the shudder and a warmth from within and when Athos drew him back onto his lap, biting into his neck as he pulled the orgasm from him, it was a whiteout and then a blackness and then an endless fall. "I love you, Athos," he gasped. "I fucking love you so much."

They kissed for hours, buried beneath the covers, warm and safe, touching and holding, not quite willing to relinquish each other, just yet, to the outside world.

“Are you two ever getting out of bed?” called Aramis from the other side of the bedroom door. “And don’t even try pretending that you’re asleep, because I have ears.”

“Five minutes,” shouted Porthos, running his tongue across the ridge of Athos’ collarbone.

“Five minutes,” agreed Aramis. “There are people in this town who’ll be very pleased to see you.”


	38. Chapter 38

As soon as the two men left the cottage, they were blown off their feet by a small but powerful force of nature.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me you were here?” yelled Constance, hugging and kissing them both until they were smudged with lipstick and reeling from the shock. “Are you coming riding?” she said to Athos. “We could go now. Roger will be so excited to see you.”

“I haven’t any suitable clothes,” said Athos, looking downcast.

“He’s got what he’s standing up in, plus some combats and t-shirts,” laughed Porthos. It was lucky that he’d washed and kept Athos’ clothes that had been left here after the fire. “We came straight from Colombia.”

“Then we’re all going shopping now,” said Constance. “Fleur’s in the shop today. Did you know she and I are together now?”

Athos shook his head. “Congratulations. You did mention her an awful lot. We should have guessed.”

“You were too busy pining over each other to notice,” laughed Constance.

“There were other things going on at the time,” growled Porthos.

“But it was mostly the fault of the pining.” When Athos smiled in honest delight Porthos could, quite happily, have demonstrated how much he loved him, then and there, in the middle of the High Street.

It was surprising how easy it was to fall into pace with Howerton, the people welcoming them back into their slow and sleepy lives with open arms. Labarge had done a runner and Rochefort had sneaked off to pastures new, so there was no need for Athos to be wary any longer.

Uncomfortable history a thing of the past, he was accepted by everyone and Porthos loved seeing him open up to them and allow himself to be brought into the fold. He spent more time talking shop with Treville at the News office, or riding horses with Constance than he did having a few sets of arrows with the lads, but then pubs were always going to be difficult places for him and Porthos understood that.

With Athos spending his days reacquainting himself with the countryside, Porthos hung out with Aramis: talking, laughing, playing PlayStation and watching sports.

“When are you two going to find somewhere to live?” asked Aramis as he was getting soundly thrashed at FIFA.

“That isn’t a tent or a hotel room, you mean?” Porthos shrugged. “I have no idea, mate. Probably never, if it’s up to my other half.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

Porthos thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said honestly. “I get fed up sometimes, but we have each other and that’s good enough for me.”

Game over, taking his beating like a man, Aramis stood up. “I have something for you both,” he said. “It’s in the studio, and it’ll have to stay there until you own a wall to hang it on.”

Porthos followed him outside to a garden that was messier than ever, a wonderful straggle of leggy wallflowers and tired michaelmas daisies. It was as beautiful as always out there, but nothing in comparison to the painting on the easel which was luminescent: a melee of colours coming together miraculously to depict the morning that he and Athos had spent lying in the sunshine, wishing the world away. 

Porthos fought his tears hard, but lost the battle when one escaped and rolled down his cheek. “It’s lovely,” he murmured. “It's perfect.” He scrubbed at his face.

“Is it okay? I wasn’t certain whether I got the colour of Athos’ arse right from memory.”

Porthos spluttered with laughter and, eternally grateful for Aramis’ sense of humour, he slung an arm around the man’s shoulders. “Thank you so much, bro.”

Athos was less emotional when he saw the painting. He’d never seen the original sketch and so he was surprised, to say the least, to see half of his bare bum immortalised in oils. "I'm quite speechless," he drawled. "Your pants are definitely too big for me, Porthos."

"It’s a shame we haven't got a wall to hang it on," said Porthos and Athos looked sideways at him.

"We could stay," he said solemnly. "We could buy a house here in Howerton."

"Could we?" A part of Porthos that, up until now, had remained hidden from him, celebrated the news with unadulterated joy, and he kissed Athos for a long, long time, pushing him up against the door of the studio, and showing him just how much he appreciated his thoughtfulness.

*

Winter Finding arrived, and Porthos thought he’d struggle seeing Aramis and Gallagher rushed off their feet, wishing he was still a part of the News team. Instead, he enjoyed the celebrations, without caring who had the longest cucumber or the stickiest buns.

Gazing up at the bonfire, he slid his arms around Athos and rested his chin on a shoulder, deliberately ignoring Aramis and d’Artagnan who were being altogether too soppy with each other, informing everyone in the vicinity that it was their anniversary.

“I s’pose it’s ours too,” he said, pressing a kiss to the Athos’ cheek.

“Our what?” Athos turned to look at him.

“Anniversary,” said Porthos.

“The anniversary of one of the many times you hated my guts,” smirked Athos.

“Never,” breathed Porthos. “I remember dancing with you. I remember us kissing for so damn long that I could hardly tell up from down.”

Turning in his arms, Athos cupped his fingers around the back of Porthos’ neck and hauled him closer. “I wanted you so much that night,” he murmured, his lips resting against Porthos’ ear. “I convinced myself that it would be okay. That I could have you just once and then walk away afterwards.”

“You tried that often enough,” laughed Porthos.

“So did you.” Athos smiled up at him.

“We were ultimately shit at the walking away part.”

“I could walk away now,” said Athos and Porthos looked at him in dismay, pain welling up in places he didn't know he could hurt. “Walk away from here, right now, with you,” explained Athos, stuttering and awkward. “I’m sorry.” He took a half step away, fingers laced together in anxiety. “I didn’t mean… I could never leave you. I love you.”

Porthos felt like an idiot. He had no _idea_ he was so fragile. Howerton was as full of bad memories as it was good ones, and reliving the past wasn’t easy for either of them. “Come on,” he said decisively. “Let’s go and right some Winter Finding wrongs, and hope the locals don’t sacrifice us on the way for running out on them.” Threading his fingers into Athos’, he led them away from the recreation ground and towards home.

The cottage was always a place of sanctuary for Porthos, and he hoped it felt the same to Athos. It should do seeing as it had been his shelter when he had been shot, and his place of recuperation for weeks afterwards. 

Kicking off his shoes, Athos huddled into the corner of the sofa, pulling his feet up and hugging his knees as if he were frozen to the bone.

Ignoring whatever the hell had just happened between them, Porthos lit the fire and then made hot chocolate. “There are marshmallows,” he said, handing Athos a mug and hoping it would bridge the gap. “I’m sorry,” he continued when Athos looked at him blankly. “We shouldn’t have come back here. Next time, can we please just go to the Caribbean for our holiday?” He laughed, but it was strained and uncomfortable. 

Athos didn’t join in, and when Porthos rested a hand on his thigh, he could feel the man tense up. “Just give me a minute,” he said and Porthos sat there waiting in silence, all the while frantic on the inside. “It’s nothing to do with being in Howerton,” Athos continued, when Porthos was giving up all hope of him ever speaking again. “I was frightened because I said something wrong, and I haven’t felt that way since I was young,” he admitted, looking down at his feet. “It bothered me to feel that vulnerable again. I thought I was over it.”

“But you didn’t _say_ anything wrong,” babbled Porthos. “I just mis-”

“Shush a minute, darling, please,” said Athos, taking hold of his hand. “Listen to me. I let my guard down because I trust you implicitly, and I need to come to terms with that.” He leaned against Porthos. “My inner naïve young man is back.”

“D’you know why I love you, why I love _us_ so much?” said Porthos and when Athos shook his head he tried his best to explain: “Because you’re my equal in every way and that makes me feel totally safe.” Because of his size all too often people wanted him to dominate them, which made him just as uncomfortable as the idea of being submissive. “I love all of you, Athos: sad little boy, naive young man.” He kissed him slow on the mouth and then pulled away to smile. “I even love your outer miserable bastard, when you're not _too_ much of a git.”

“I’m sorry for being so ridiculous,” said Athos with a faintly embarrassed smirk.

“It’s called being human.” Porthos moved the mugs of hot chocolate to the table and drew Athos into a hug. It was a hopeless task on the pint sized sofa, and they twisted and turned so much they ended up on the floor. “Perfect,” said Porthos. “Who needs furniture, eh?”

Stoking the fire and putting the guard back in place, he lay on the hearth rug and held his arms out to Athos. “Come here, love.”

Slowly, warmed by the radiance of the fire and the comfort of the hug, Athos began to unwind. Porthos could feel the tension ease away from the man and, propped on an elbow, he leaned over, lips skating across the exaggerated crest of cheekbones to touch upon the silver line of his scar.

Edging downwards, he licked the hollow of Athos’ throat, unfastening his shirt button by button and kissing each newly exposed inch of skin. “I love us because at any minute you could shove me onto my back and take over.”

“I could,” said Athos, “but I won’t.”

Porthos braced himself on his arms and looked down at him. “And why not?” he asked.

“Because you owe me a blow job. Specifically _this_ blow job.” 

Porthos laughed. “Cheeky sod. And here was I thinking you were all miserable.”

“I am.” Athos quirked an eyebrow. “Woebegone in fact.”

“And this will help, will it?” said Porthos, dipping his tongue into the well of Athos’ belly button.

“Fuck yes,” moaned Athos as Porthos sucked a wet path down his treasure trail, all the while undoing belt, button, and zipper.

Kneeling up, Porthos yanked down Athos’ chinos and pants to reveal a cock that was thick and hard, leaking with excitement. Porthos lapped at the pool of fluid then sprawled over Athos, kissing him and sharing the taste. “If I do this.” He wriggled his hips. “Are you going to let me fuck you all night?”

“Of course,” said Athos. “Until I want a turn.”

Backing off until he was crouched between spread legs, Porthos licked upwards from balls to tip, and then sat back to admire the debauched sight of Athos, semi-naked and rosy from the firelight, his cock glossy wet against his belly as he begged wordlessly with his eyes. “I think I’m going to commission Aramis to paint you like this,” he growled.

“Stop yammering and suck me off,” demanded Athos. 

“Fighting talk,” said Porthos, licking up the crease of thigh and teasing his balls with a flicker of tongue. “I could do this all night instead,” he said, sucking a bruise of ownership into the furrow of each hip.

“Then you’ll never get to fuck me.” Athos was watching, resting on his forearms, his eyes half-lidded, skin superheated by the fire.

Athos may have won the battle of words, but Porthos was going to enjoy giving him first prize. Squirming downwards until he was lying to one side, he propped himself up on an elbow and took that cock into his mouth, teasing him with soft sucks and delicate rolls of the tongue. God, did he love having the power to turn his cool, collected man into a dishevelled and wanton mess, thrashing around in disarray.

Working him with a hand he began to suck hard, stroking him off with tongue and fingers until he was gasping out words of love and need and coming in bitter sweet bursts down Porthos' throat.

Carding his fingers into Porthos' hair, Athos sighed with delight. "Of course, that wasn't actually the blow job you owed me," he smirked. "That was supposed to happen in the pub, if I remember correctly."

Porthos pounced, straddling Athos, his hard cock digging into a warm and satisfied body. "Would you really want me sucking you off in front of everyone?"

"Fuck yes," grinned Athos. "Why ever wouldn't I?"

"Dirty bugger," growled Porthos, his eyes lighting up. Jumping to his feet, he reached down grabbed Athos by the wrists and hauled him upright. "Get your arse up those bloody stairs now."

Holding onto his chinos, Athos charged up to their room with Porthos racing after him, undoing his shirt on the way.

Clothes flying off, an errant sock landing on the windowsill, they dived for the bed, tumbling together, kissing, touching, stroking. With Athos on all fours, Porthos fingered him open, pumping himself slowly with a lubed fist and waiting for the inevitable with a grin on his face. Athos groused, barging against him demanding more, and Porthos slapped him on the arse, teasing him with the head of his cock as punishment for being impatient. "Want a fuck, do you?"

"Yes, for god’s sake. Now." Athos gripped the headboard and looked around at him. "I'll get my own back later, you sod."

"Can't right now though, can you?" Porthos reached around to squeeze at Athos' semi-soft dick. "D'you want it bad?" he laughed, sliding in an inch and then pulling free.

"Bloody hell, fuck me now." Athos was whining.

"Fuck him now, Porthos, please," said Aramis from the landing. "And try and remember to close the damn door when you’re having a screw."

"Nothing like getting your own back," yelled Porthos, grinning as the door slammed shut and he slammed into Athos, the two actions in perfect synchronicity with each other.

Fun and games done with for now, he curved across Athos, sucking kisses onto his skin and raking his back until he squirmed and clenched around him. "Turn over for me," he gasped, needing to see those eyes darken with desire.

From then on everything slowed. Athos was spread out, still aching for him but quieter now. The background hiss of sex from the next bedroom was nothing but white noise and when Porthos fell into Athos, he was drowning in him, in his eyes and his body, in this limitless love that they shared. 

They came, wet and hot, falling apart but utterly together, and for a moment time stood still. Athos was looking up at him with such unfathomable emotion in his eyes that Porthos was floored. He kissed him hard on the mouth, trying to explain the depth of his feelings, but it was impossible to put into words or actions.

Athos kissed him back. "I know," he said with a smile that wasn't a sarcastic smirk, or a grin of excitement. It was small and gentle and full of hope. They lay together in silence for a while, drained and blissed out, and then Athos yawned. "We need to start looking for a house," he said, stretching and yawning again. "Somewhere to hang our picture."

"No, we don't," said Porthos. He had his wall right here, edging closer all the time and about to smother him with love. "How's the weather in Libya at this time of year?"

"Great for camping," said Athos as he turned and sprawled over Porthos. "There was a fantastic hotel in Tripoli, only it got blown up in the war." He paused. "The swimming pool might still be there."

"I'll pack my arm bands," said Porthos in a gruff voice, bundling up beneath his blanket of hot and sticky man.

"Porthos?" Athos lifted his head for a moment and raised a hopeful eyebrow. 

"I know," sighed Porthos, resigning himself for the worst as he prepared to leave the warmth of their bed. "You'd love a cup of tea."

“I’d love a cup of tea.”

\---end


End file.
